Always and Never
by theheartofadetective
Summary: Molly is trying her best to put together a broken Sherlock after he's forced to kill himself and lay low, but that doesn't mean she isn't falling apart trying to do it. She'll have to keep herself composed to push him through this mess until he can return to London.
1. Chapter 1

Molly sighed before she walked into the door, grasping the handle and trying to prepare a smile on her face. The burden on Sherlock was much greater than the one on her; she was going to help him through this. She's always been selfless Molly Hooper, so she shouldn't feel this any different.

She hung up her coat as she came through the door, watching Sherlock as he completely disregarded her entrance. He was in the same clothes he had been in for a few days now with his eyes closed and hands steepled together, pressed against his mouth. His feet were propped up on the coffee table.

Next to him on the table was a mug lying on its side with a small amount of black, stale coffee spilled across the table top. Within the dark, sludgy liquid was at least a pack's worth of extinguished cigarette butts.

Before, he had nothing to do, nowhere to go- he had been in hiding when they were at Molly's flat, and now Mycroft had relocated Sherlock and Molly to a flat in a small villa in southern France for the time being. It was too dangerous for him to stay in England for as long as he did, and when Mycroft finally knew, he decided it best to move them out of the country.

Mycroft had noted the changes with Sherlock and did not trust him to stay out of trouble. He had requested Molly to go with Sherlock, and since Sherlock had made no opposition, Molly agreed. Mycroft told them they were to act normal, act as a domestic as possible as to not attract attention, but Sherlock was just as void of society as he had been in London; anonymity would not be a problem at the moment. Mycroft would be spending his time with his resources tracking down Moriarty's network, attempting to eliminate them so Sherlock could safely return to London.

Sherlock refused to leave the flat even though he could now. He had no reason to, and he didn't feel it important. There would be no cases, no Baker Street, _no John._

No, John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, was still grieving over the man that had jumped from the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital that dreaded day, believing that Sherlock was deceased; his body buried beneath the soil. He did not have the faintest idea that the grave he visited all the time was void of any corpse, but that didn't mean that Sherlock did not feel buried there anyway.

Sherlock was grieving as much as John, but grieving over the death of himself. It was not for the reasons that people normally mourn over death. He grieved because he was beaten, and he was lost. He had assured himself that he was a step ahead of Jim Moriarty, but in the end he only discovered he was two steps behind. Now he was paying the price for it; there was no other way to save the few he cared about. So with Molly's assistance, Sherlock faked his death and removed himself entirely from everything. Molly was sure now that he wasn't only detached physically.

Everything had changed; well, mostly everything. When he broke what seemed to be his endless silence, his words were either mean and crass, or flat and void of anything. He made sure to take whatever he was feeling, or hiding, out on the one person trying to piece him back together. Molly took his words as lightly as she could manage, remembering what he'd been through. She understood irrevocably that he was at his worst; he had nothing left, and she was his only hope.

His behaviour had been like this for weeks, and so scene before her was not surprising. She had been more concerned with the way he looked. There were dark, heavy circles under his eyes even though he had all the time in the world to sleep; most of his nights were spent wide awake, brooding. And now his already slim body had continued to thin, as malnourishment was evident; he ate rarely, and Molly had to make a fuss to even get him to. He was torturing himself, letting himself fall apart piece by piece and Molly was unsure of what to do.

"Sherlock," Molly said with a heavy sigh, but he said nothing, his eyes closed and body still. She cleaned up the mess and tossed it into the rubbish bin without complaint. When she came back out of the kitchen, she replaced the empty spot on the coffee table with a fresh mug of coffee; black, two sugars just as he liked it.

Molly set her own coffee down on the table and curled up in the chair next to sofa Sherlock sat on. She held her legs against her chest and rested her chin upon her knees, watching him. She wanted something; she needed something- a movement, a noise, something.

"You've been staring for a while now," he said before she had a chance to speak, finally opening his eyes and looking to her.

"Well, I just- I wanted to make sure you were okay…" she trailed off nervously.

"A dead man does not need mothering, Molly," he replied brashly, pushing her away as he usually did, keeping his façade stern and annoyed.

She kept her eyes down now, hugging her knees tighter to her chest and she let out a soft sigh. It was killing her inside to see this, and she thought she was doing well at hiding it, but his deducing skills had not faltered at all. His eyes immediately were scanning her when he heard the sighing breath escape her lips but said nothing.

She fidgeted in her seat as he picked her apart, concern evidently washed over her face. He became lost in the sad way that she looked, but also the strain in her eyes as she tried as well as she could to keep it from him. _Did she think he was stupid?_

No, of course she didn't, but he seemed to think so; no one plays games with Sherlock Holmes. He thought harshly, disregarding the adverse feeling of responsibility for the almost-hidden grave look on her face; he denied that she was that way because of him. It was not his fault, it was _her_ problem if she was going to be so emotionally invested in his physical and mental health.

It was not long before Molly became uncomfortable enough and stood up from her seat, not looking at him as she spoke. "Is there anything you need before I go to bed?"

He went to reply, but she knew the only thing that he was going to ask for. He closed his mouth as he watched her walk over to the bag and pull out a box. She knew his routine, and it made Sherlock feel she had thought him predictable, taking care of him in the only way she knew how; how _irritating _of her.

She walked over and handed the box to him. "These will- they'll have to do. The neighbours have been complaining, they know you're smoking. They told us that this was a smoke-free flat complex; I was spoken to today."

He looked down at the box of nicotine patches dissatisfied, giving a sniff of derision but said nothing. He set them down on the table, his eyes heavy as he was fighting off sleep. Molly knew he wouldn't though; she knew he would force himself awake for another day before his body couldn't physically fight it off anymore.

"Sherlock?" she said softly as he looked over to her.

"If I make you something, will you eat?"

"I don't need anything."

"Please? You need to eat _something,_" she pleaded, her eyes begging even more than her voice.

"Fine," he replied abruptly.

She gave a wide smile, scurrying into the kitchen to make him something as he watched her now with curiosity. Why did she even care? It didn't directly affect her. He knew why, he knew she cared, but it so pointless. Why bother?

He knew she was there because Mycroft had asked her and Sherlock had not refused the idea; he didn't because he _did_ want her there. She was the one person in the world besides his brother, (_because he even counted_ he thought sarcastically), and he needed that contact. He told himself that it was the more convenient option, that he would not have a necessity to leave the flat, and so it was 'justified.'

Ever since he began living with John he had enjoyed some minimal human contact, whether to talk out loud, or not feel as though he had to live a solitary life, and this was more comfortable for him. Though, since his fall he didn't speak much, and he did not embrace Molly when she would sit quietly in a room with him. He secretly enjoyed it though, having at least that something. It helped him cling to the edges of sanity he needed to surface himself back to reality. He wasn't sure how he would cope if she wasn't there.

She made something simple, something quick before he had changed his mind. She placed a cup of tea, some scrambled eggs, and a muffin in front of him; she hoped to God he would eat all of it because she didn't know when she would get another opportunity.

She sat next to him at the table with the newspaper, trying her best to understand the minimal amounts of French she could decipher; it was becoming easier. She was better at speaking in small conversation then she was at reading it. She scrunched her nose as she was trying to make out the words, sneaking a few glances at Sherlock as he ate slowly.

Her phone was next to her, and she glanced at it as she heard the vibrations against the table. She stiffened as she realised it was Mycroft, standing up from the table and walking into the next room as she opened the call.

His utensils were sitting against the side of the plate, food already forgotten. Sherlock knew it was Mycroft, he knew Mycroft would be asking how he was, and the worst part was that he knew that Molly would be told how John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade were. He couldn't bear to think about it, but he did so anyway. All he wanted was to be able to get this solved, but his brother was taking an awfully long time; it gnawed at him.

"Hello?" Molly answered faintly. Sherlock took in the patter of her light feet pacing across the room, her voice nervous as she awaited Mycroft's questions and answers.

"He's still not coping well yet?" he heard her ask, knowing from her common mannerisms that she was biting her bottom lip even though he couldn't see her. "Oh, really? He's met someone then? So is he doing at least a bit better? That's great."

Then he knew the conversation was about him: "No, he hasn't slept; he'll be awake for another day." She had spent enough time with him now to know how long he could go without sleep; she had really spent enough time to know a lot about him, at least in the manner of his current state. "I've just made him some food, but I doubt he'll finish it now."

Sherlock looked down at his food with disgust now; Molly's earlier pleas were not enough to make him want to finish it. He rationalised that he ate enough that made him fine for minimal functioning.

He pushed his plate aside and grabbed the laptop, opening it up. He was still convinced that he would be able to find something before Mycroft's men could, and he was determined that when he did, he would be able to solve this. He lost himself in his research, Molly's words fading into the background as he began the preliminary cataloguing within his mind palace. He took in every word that his eyes skimmed across, later to be analysed and eradicated if the information was decidedly insignificant.

Molly came back into the kitchen a short while after he had sunk into his research, glancing at his plate, the small smile on her lips pressing into a flat line. "You're done with this now then?"

He waved his hand, but said nothing. "Well," she started, suppressing a sigh and letting a smile back on her face. "It's good that you've eaten something at least." She gave his shoulder a light squeeze without even thinking about it, the pads of her fingers delicate against the fabric of his shirt.

He glanced over at Molly's hand indecisively and then looked up to her face; well, this was new. Not unpleasant, but new.

She pulled her hand away as she noticed him stiffen and look at her hand. She couldn't tell the expression on his face as he was deciding if it was pleasant or not. "Sorry," she said, sounding as though she had offended him.

"It's fine, Molly," he said, ignoring her now, his gaze intent on the laptop again.

"Anything new?" she asked after a quiet moment, trying to sound hopeful.

"Maybe," he replied, not looking away from the laptop, continuing to scroll.

She took his utensils into the kitchen and washed them off, not bothering with the dishwasher. This was quicker and kept her busy at the least. She would be there as long as Sherlock needed her, but there were only so many minimal tasks she could preoccupy herself with. She was bored, and she missed Bart's so much. It was what she loved; she hoped she had always made a difference, helped people get justice where justice was needed. But right now she was helping Sherlock, someone close to her, someone she loved, and that was probably even more fulfilling if it was going to make a difference for him. She hoped so, because he needed it. _She_ needed to believe it.

Molly was modest with most things, but she didn't deny it when Sherlock said she was one of the best in her field. She had accomplished more in her small amount of years with her career than a lot of the staff senior to her did. Her job would be there when she returned though; Mycroft had ensured that when he asked her to go.

She spun around from the kitchen counter and was leaning against it, a new plan in her mind.

"So," she began, hoping she would be able to convince him, but she knew she was pushing her luck. "What would you say about going out and doing something tomorrow? Get some fresh air- go to the shops or something?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, still not looking to her.

"Really?" Molly perked up, "you'll go?"

"I've just agreed, yes? I need to try and find someone anyway."

"Oh?" Molly asked quizzically.

"May be connected to the network," uninterested in the conversation now.

"Ah," Molly said, not knowing how else to respond. "Something safe I hope?"

"Molly, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

She said nothing else, but was pleased anyway. Tomorrow they would go out and Sherlock would finally get some fresh air in his lungs.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly was walking with a bounce in her step, adoring all the window shops as she went along. Sherlock followed slightly behind her as he noticed her mood was different than it had been. He watched as her eyes lit up when she saw things that she liked, almost like that of a child, and a small smile twitched across his face. He kept his hands buried in his coat pocket as he continued a few paces behind her.

Frankly, Molly was proud of herself for getting Sherlock out and about, even if he had other incentive. _It was still something,_ she told herself; _maybe he was improving_. He had even eaten a little bit last night. Maybe as they were getting closer to solving this, Sherlock would give away from this broken façade, and maybe her efforts _were _making a difference.

Molly was glancing in the window of a book shop now, her eye adoringly on one of her favourite books, letting the story unfold in her hand again; she had read it so many times through that she would be able to understand it still in French- maybe it would help improve her reading skills.

Her contemplation was disrupted by a man- around their age, attractive, and speaking to her in French. She was immediately uncomfortable as she always was when people began talking to her, afraid of embarrassing herself. She was in France, she should be expected to be respectful and speak their language, or at least try her best.

Sherlock knew the language much better than she did, but he had fallen a bit behind. He caught the end of one sentence and the beginning of the other, deducing immediately that he was flirting with her. Molly's face changed as she blushed when she realised, her speech becoming increasingly nervous; she was especially self-conscious now as she was afraid to say the wrong thing in a language she was still trying to learn. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the wrong idea.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked up to the two of them, placing himself close against Molly, instinctively putting a hand on the small of her back as he gave the man an unhappy look. Molly tried to suppress a squeak as she could feel him warm against her and pressed herself back into his hand; she felt silly that she was anxious for that small touch.

It didn't take long before the man had assumed that they were together and scurried away at Molly's "unavailability" looking disappointed.

She kept herself against Sherlock even after the man walked away, his hand still warm against her. He seemed lost in thought, but comfortable with the contact she wanted, that he wanted but would not admit. Her cheeks were turned a slight pink as she realised that she still lingered. "Thanks," she smiled genuinely, disconnecting him from his mind palace. She turned back to the window of the book shop, staring at the rest of the novels on display. His fingers tingled and he clenched his hand as he stood in his same spot, watching her momentarily enjoy herself.

She suddenly felt her mobile vibrating as she picked it up to glance at the screen, and he could see a nervous frown on her face. She awkwardly sped up her pace to a half run while trying to get away from the noise. He saw her answer before reaching her, and she looked concerned as he walked over to see who it was; he was pretty sure he already knew.

"I'm uhm- no, I'm good. I'm great. Doing better than last time we spoke." She put on a smile as if the person on the other line was looking at her.

"Really, you have? That's wonderful! What's her name?" Molly asked, pretending she didn't already know from Mycroft. She was trying to steer away from the subject of Sherlock as she continued speaking to the man.

"Well, I'm so glad that you have found someone, John," she smiled, not realising that Sherlock was next to her, her back facing him.

John was clearly asking why she wasn't in London now, hearing from Lestrade that he hadn't seen her there lately.

"Oh, uhm well…" Sherlock froze as she hesitated to find an easy answer. "I'm temping in France. I thought it would be good to explore my horizons and they needed someone to fill this spot temporarily. When I come back to London I'll be back at Bart's; not sure when though, it could be a while."

They both sighed as she saved herself and John gave in to her story.

Her face changed into a strained expression as she listened on the other line now. "No, no, I'm quite alright, its well- easier now," she said, trying to hide the grimace as she turned so her profile faced him. She was lying through her teeth though; nothing was any easier for her than it had been in London. It may not have been for the reasons that John thought, but things had certainly been difficult for her. "I think this positioned popped up at the right time; get my mind to focus on other things."

But Molly's eyes glassed over now as John was replying to her. "No, John, it's alright," she choked, putting her hand over her mouth to cover up a sob. "You'll get through it; you just need to give it some more time." Molly was in pain from the sound of John's voice; he was still so broken. He was doing better, but still a damaged man. "I know, I know, I miss him too, I'm sure everyone does, but, you did what you could."

Sherlock was closer to her now and could hear one choked out sob on the other line from John and Molly tried her best to not let one escape from her own lips. "I'll talk to you later," she finally gasped, her voice shaky. "But if you need to talk- don't hesitate to call me, okay?" And with that goodbyes were said and the call was ended.

She closed her eyes to try and rid them of any moisture and turned to Sherlock, giving him a half-hearted smile as she put the mobile back in her pocket. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, time dragging on its own accord. She could see the sad look on his face when he thought she was still looking down.

She fiddled with her fingers for a second before she looked back up. "We should get back to looking at the shops, ta?" she said, turning forward before he could respond and began to walk along the sidewalk.

She was trying so hard to keep it light and happy; she wanted nothing more than to take Sherlock's mind off of everything today. She knew though, that Sherlock was thinking about it now, and she was too. This wasn't a breeze for her as much as it wasn't for him; she was loyal and dedicated to what was going on, but it pained her to have this immense guilt of lying to everyone, to John. She didn't feel that it was fair to have to lie to him, but she understood why. Sherlock was much closer to John than her, he should be in these shoes right now; maybe Sherlock wouldn't be so unhappy if John were here instead. She still didn't believe that she counted, or that she mattered. She was conveniently able to help him and in on the information, and Moriarty saw her as she was to him, which wasn't much really. At least, this is what she told herself to get by, to try and shake her feelings for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked to her before she turned away and there it was; the demeanour Molly had been holding day after day in the flat was now returning to her face. She did her best to hide it, but he could see the guilt seeping from her. He was tearing her apart as much as he was torn, dragging her down with him, and he saw it happening little by little. Why hadn't she left by now? She should have, Sherlock was hopeless. He shouldn't need someone there, he shouldn't be weak. Why was this so hard to push through, why couldn't she leave him alone and make everything better for herself again? Mycroft never should have let this responsibility fall on her; Sherlock should never have let it happen.

"Molly," Sherlock began before they reached the street again and she stopped to look up at him. "I need to take care of something."

She nodded. "Alright, uhm-" she bit her lip. "Did you want me to go with you?"

"No, I'm fine by myself," he said, looking away from her and walked down the alley before she could say anything else. He was fine, he could handle himself; he wanted to tell himself that the last thing he needed was her when that was the farthest thing from the truth.

* * *

The person he sought out did not help him as he knew he wouldn't, but he was desperate. He thought maybe someone would slip; not everyone could retain Moriarty's perfection and meticulousness, and he thought maybe he could catch them in it. The only thing he could confirm now that Moran _was_ still in the south of France, but he still didn't know exactly where. He tightened his scarf and moved swiftly, turning the corner of one alley to spot something that seemed familiar to him. His arm tingled at the sensation he immediately craved as his mouth practically watered.

He had never been active in this _side_ of France, but he knew what this was, and desperately he walked up the man at the far end of the alley, pulling euros out of his pocket without a word. The man handed him what he was seeking, and Sherlock slipped it deep into his coat pocket, clenching the item hidden within. He ominously escaped back into the alley, trying to make his stride relaxed as he made his way back to the street where Molly still was.

As he rounded another corner he saw her sitting outside of a small café, a coffee in her hand as she thumbed through the newspaper, keeping to herself; she looked anxious now. Her day had been changed as soon as her phone had went off, and she was especially apprehensive because she knew it was upsetting him, and that he would never admit it- let alone talk about it.

She looked up and saw him, letting a smile flash across her face as she stood now, walking over to him.

She noticed that he looked a bit odd though, nervous like she normally was- that was definitely un-Sherlock. "Everything okay?" she asked innocently.

"Fine," he said, and then quickly began again. "Are you done here?"

"Yeah, if you wanted to get back… are you sure you're alright?"

"I've just said that."

She didn't reply, but followed him back to the flat. She knew something seemed off, weird. They had done really well until she had received John's call. Molly hoped that maybe Sherlock would brush that interruption to their day and continue his streak of doing a bit better; she held onto that thread because there was nothing else she could do. She had no idea of the racing; confused thoughts that flittered through his mind much quicker than they usually did, whirling him into a sense of wonder, confusion, and _yearning._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stared at the needle on the dresser as he paced back and forth, looking to it every fifteen seconds. He had to make a decision now; his thoughts were pounding too quickly to calculate how much time he would have before Molly returned, but he thought he would have enough time to recover before she had noticed what he'd done.

He couldn't _stop_ thinking though. There was so much guilt that he had rarely experienced before. All he could think about was the people who he had died for, and how he knew John still wasn't over it (he didn't understand why- people die, you can't control that, so why dwell?). He had heard in a previous conversation, when Molly was sitting too close, about how Mrs Hudson had never been the same after the funeral; it was like a mother losing her child. There was also Moran; he knew the name, but had no leads to finding him. There had to be something. He figured that out before Mycroft did, but it was meaningless unless someone could determine the next step. He had to be absolutely sure- precise in his findings- or any opportunity of getting close to the situation could be jeopardized.

And then there was Molly; Sherlock could hear and deduce about everyone's grief, but he could _observe _what this situation was doing to her. She was wasting her life away taking care of him, trying to hold him together. He didn't understand; what had he done to make certain people so loyal to him, to make Molly so loyal to him? She had risked everything, and given up even more coming here with him. He could tell she was different, could tell she was not the same bubbly person, but she was trying her best to be positive for the both of them. But why? He still couldn't understand it; as many times as he searched the catalogues in his mind palace he just couldn't find an answer. And why did he feel he needed her there- he was showing that he was weak as much as he wouldn't talk about it, as much as he pushed her away and hurt her feelings. He _always_ hurt her and she brushed it aside as to not take it to heart when he _was_ intentionally attacking her. To get a rise, to take it out on someone else beside himself- it was disgusting, pathetic. She didn't deserve any of this.

But he didn't know what to do. He didn't want her to leave; he wasn't going to ask her. He just wanted to stop thinking, his mind never rested; he couldn't even sleep because of it. His brilliant mind always betrayed him in that way.

As he placed the needle in his arm, he knew, clinically, it had been above the average dose, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he felt the release of his body and his mind slowing. He sank down onto the floor of the bathroom and let the back of his head press against the wall, enjoying the silent bliss.

_Just this once_ he had told himself. He could get away with it once without her noticing.

* * *

Molly pulled the euros out of her pocket and handed them to the cashier, picking up the rest of her bags as she exited the store.

She was hoping that since she had gotten him out of the flat that he would be feeling better. Maybe she could get him to eat again, and to sleep. She had to try no matter what kind of mood he was in. John's call had produced a setback, but maybe she could get him to stray away from the haunting thought.

She was going to make him a nice dinner- he should eat well if he wasn't going to eat much. She hoped maybe things were starting to look on the good side- maybe.

As she moved along the sidewalk it was beginning to get dark. She checked her watch as she walked along, the bags feeling heavy in her hands, the handles making hard indents against her delicate fingers. Her brisk walk was stopped by the grabbing of the collar of her coat. The seam ripped as she was dragged around a dark corner. Her head and her elbows harshly hit the wall as she supressed a groan.

She began to gasp when a hand covered her mouth, "tais-toi!" he hissed.

She did as he said reluctantly, knowing that he was telling her to shut her mouth and remained silent. She made sure to in concern for her own safety when she saw a knife gripped tightly into his other hand.

She stood there paralysed, unable to move or tear her eyes away as he rummaged his hand away from her mouth and buried his hands into her coat pockets, making sure to keep his eyes on her face. This was obviously not his first time mugging someone as he was confident and persistent, never faltering.

In a matter of seconds, which to her felt like an eternity, the man was shoved off of her and he fell to the ground, the knife escaping his hand.

The man picked up the knife and held it out in front of him. "Get out of here. You piece of rubbish, do you get off harassing poor girls? Find another way to make your own money," he shouted.

The attacker fled quickly as Molly watched him until he was out of sight. She could not tear her eyes away until the man spoke to her. "Are you alright, miss?"

She turned her head and immediately recognised him; it was the man that had been flirting with her near the shopping centre. She relaxed and pulled away from the wall, looking to him. "Yes, I-I'm okay," and then nervously but gratefully added, "thank you so much, I don't know what I would've done." She rubbed the back of her head where it had hit the wall. She felt a bit dizzy, but it was manageable. No blood, but there would surely be bruising.

He helped her pick up the grocery bags that had spilled out onto the ground and she stood up to leave. "Thank you again," she nodded.

"Let me pay for a cab ride home for you," he offered.

"Oh no," she said blushing, "no, I couldn't impose. I'm only a few blocks from here, but I uhm, I really need to get back. I wish there was something I could give you as a thank you, I really owe you…"

"I don't suppose I could convince you to get a coffee with me?"

"I-" she said, looking to the ground, "now is… not a good time in my life. I truly am sorry. I have someone to look after…" she wasn't lying.

"A troubling time," he said, putting a hand on her arm, his grip a bit tight, and it startled Molly.

She flinched at his touch and looked at him sceptically, a bit overwhelmed, but stood where she was. He had just saved her life, his touch had definitely seemed forceful but his face seemed calm and serene and he let go immediately at her discomfort.

Molly was conflicted in everything that had happened and she became increasingly nervous now; she needed to get away. "A very… stressful one," she said quickly, her voice tense and her eyes darting around. She gave a half-hearted smile. "But really, I have to get back. Uhm, thank you again…"

"Have a good night, miss," he said, an impish smile on his face as he turned around and walked in the other direction.

Her hands trembled as she walked back towards the flat, almost dropping the bags in her hands. She was still quite shaken up from what happened, but she was still grateful for the… peculiar man that had saved her. Odd or not, she had needed someone there.

She chased the thoughts away, realising that she needed to focus on Sherlock now. She had been gone for longer than she expected since the interruption of her quick errand and she needed to get home. She wasn't going to tell Sherlock, but of course he would notice. Of all people the look on her face would just tell him, but the new rip in the collar of her coat would definitely confirm to anyone something bad had happened.

* * *

She walked into the flat with bags in her hand and all was quiet.

She placed the bags on the counter, throwing off her coat as she walked around to try and find him. Maybe if she abandoned the coat somewhere unnoticed, he wouldn't realise that something had happened.

She weaved her way through the rooms, her brow furrowing now. She finally looked to the bathroom to see the door cracked open and it looked like Sherlock was sitting on the bathroom floor, his legs and feet in her view.

She pushed the door open a bit more to see Sherlock barely conscious, a needle in his arm. He was completely out of it, and he was showing all the signs of what she prayed did not match what she was looking at. She knew his history of heroin, but surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to do it? To take more than he should have?

"Sherlock?" she said frantically as she immediately kneeled beside him. She pulled the needle out of his arm and threw it in the trash, her hands now scanning his pulse, very weak. His breathing was shallow and lips tinted blue. She grabbed his chin lightly and pulled his mouth open- tongue discoloration; there was nothing that could make her more sure than the combination of all of these things. She swallowed hard as tears were immediately streaming down her cheeks. She turned on the water in the shower, trying her best to drag him into the tub as fast as she could.

"You can't do this to me," she pleaded, voice shaking, knowing that he couldn't hear her, and even if he could he was not conscious enough to comprehend it. "Why? Why would you do this? I can't lose you. You have so much to go back to. People need you, Sherlock, _I _need you."

She didn't know how long she was yelling to him before he began to stir on and off, the water getting him to wake more frequently. She often had to open and close her own eyes, refocus herself, to fight off the dizziness from her head meeting the wall before. That barely mattered anymore though; it was pushed out of her mind, her head racing, pleading with a constriction in her chest. She needed him to be okay.

She had been sitting in the shower for forty minutes now, petting his hair away from his face and shaking as the water had run cold long before. The water continued running over Sherlock as she hoped to keep him out of a comatose state. He had vaguely been in and out of consciousness, but she was confident that this time he wouldn't sink back into oblivion.

"Tell me that you're okay," she said softly, her hands cupping either side of his face as his head was in her lap. He stared up at her, his vision still a bit blurry, but clearing. His throat was dry and he could not find the words as he stared up at her face.

"Tell me," she pleaded, her breathing ragged now, still sobbing. "_Sherlock_," she cracked. She knew he was okay now, she knew, especially with her medical training that he would physically and mentally be okay by the signs he was showing, but she was in hysterics; she needed to _hear_ it from him.

He managed a nod as he continued to look at up at her. Even in this fragile state he was deducing everything about her reactions, the high anxiety clearly evident. Everyone claimed him to be so selfish, but at this time he couldn't find himself to care at all about his own well-being, but he needed to for her. So for a single moment, for her, he ignored what he wanted to say, he ignored trying to avoid the fact that yes, he was in a vulnerable position.

"Yes," his voice croaked out as he started coughing, "I'm alright."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes as Molly tried to control her crying, and now silent tears were falling down her cheeks, masked by the water pouring down on them. He watched her still as she slowly reached up and turned the water off never removing her eyes from his face.

Her crying subsided as she stared down at him, her eyes puffy and red. Never before had he seen someone look so furious and so sad all at once. She was trying to hold it in now, and she would hold it in as long as she could. This was yet another time when the stress was trying so hard to push her down by her shoulders and drown her, but she had to surface herself.

She wanted to scream until her voice was hoarse; she wanted to tell him what a moron he was, about how if this was how it was going to be, than she couldn't help him, that it was out of her control. She would lose it though. Molly tried her best to control herself, clutching the lapels of his partially opened, soaking wet shirt. "Promise me."

He looked at her. "_Never again, _ me."

He sat there for a minute, examining her wild eyes. "I swear," he said quietly.

She kissed his cheek as her thumb gently caressed the other for a minute before dropping her hand and also her eyes, looking anywhere but at him, completely silent.

It took a while, but she finally got him to sit up in the tub and she maneuvered herself out, noticing his hard shivering as she handed him a towel, trying as much as she could to control her own shaking; it was both out of anxiousness and the cold wetness against her skin.

She came back into the bathroom with clean, dry clothes for Sherlock and put them in his reach, walking to her bedroom to change herself and then took a spot in the sitting room.

After a while, Sherlock finally came out and sat down on the sofa. She had to help him get to that point; his body was so weak and tired. They said nothing to each other though. She couldn't say anything to him because she would crumble and he needed rest. Even if Sherlock didn't, he had no idea what to say to her.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke the next morning, his head pounding as soon as his lids rose. His head swam with thoughts of the previous night, thinking over what he had done. Like the typical addict he was, thinking that Molly was stupid and would not realise what happened- he was a _fool_. Of course he knew she would notice; it was that he hadn't been able to find any notion to care- well, before he didn't. Now was a different story.

Sherlock blinked blankly as he kept remembering when his vision cleared, feebly lying in the tub, and his head in Molly's lap. The look on her face made him want to claw his eyes out; the look of anger, of sadness, and most of all of disappointment. She was crying, although she had been self-consciously trying to get herself to stop- but the thought of Sherlock lost, gone, she couldn't bear it; it was a story she told him with her terrified eyes.

He glanced over the top of the sofa to see Molly sitting at the table in the kitchen, gripping the paper tightly, her nervous demeanour so obviously visible. A hard line creased her brow and her eyes narrowed as she tried to focus on the words; it was hard enough for her to read French, there was no way after all of this that she was able to take in the information. She simply read the same sentence over and over, her worry ruminating within her. Her mind was drained, but her body jolted; she had not slept that night.

Every time her mind entertained the thought of sleep her chest tightened. She had always trusted Sherlock with everything, but there would be so much hesitation now, just to make sure that he wouldn't do something so reckless. She needed to be strong; she needed to be there for Sherlock at every moment even though her tired, glassy eyes and the constantly nervous trembling of her hands screamed that she would break if anything else were to happen.

The loud creak of the sofa caught her attention, realising he was awake. She looked up immediately to assure herself that he was okay. Of course he was, she had been up all night watching over him; irrational fear is what Sherlock would call it, but Molly saw it as protective.

Sherlock walked over to the table and sat in the chair across from her, grabbing the coffee she had set on the table, inevitably knowing he would need it. Molly wiggled in her seat as he looked at her, hauntings of the previous night flashing across her eyes as she set down the paper; she gave up, she wasn't reading at all, and he had probably already noticed that.

As he looked her over, he made note of the darkened circles under her eyes, clearly no sleep. And from there his mind trailed an imaginary line to her hands, watching the slight shake next to a few mugs. She had switched between coffee and decaffeinated tea, trying to limit her caffeine intake, but had given up soon after and went back to coffee. She was drinking it black now- not her usual sweetness of cream as to keep it strong, keep her aware. She was weary, tense, she couldn't push the thoughts from her mind and it was clear to him.

She wasn't ready to be near him or to even talk to him, but the former was a necessity; how could she protect him if she could not be in the same room as him? The talking part was manageable though as he preferred to be quiet. He was always annoyed when she opened her mouth, even when she had intents of somehow helping him, soothing him. Her efforts were apparently meaningless; it seemed to her they were since the events of last night screamed something strong.

But as his eyes scanned her over, stripped her down to everything she was thinking about, what she had done the previous night to keep her busy as she monitored him, the chair behind him caught his eye. He narrowed them as he saw a ripped seam in her coat hung over her seat, and tried to decipher what had happened. The tear was not there before she had left the flat the day before.

As he stared intensely at the coat he heard a small gasp escape her lips. She had grown uncomfortable quickly and to try and shed the awkward silence, she had raised her hand up to scratch the back of her head. She winced as the pads of her fingers grazed the still forming bruise she had neglected to remember. The remembrance of the events before she had even returned home surfaced and she winced further, knowing that Sherlock had already deduced what had happened. She knew when she opened her eyes that there would be questions to answer.

He was standing over her by the time she opened her eyes, hovering and examining her head where an obvious bump was raised. He stared blankly, his voice quiet, "Molly, what-"

"It's nothing" she broke off immediately, "I'm fine."

"Obviously not," he replied after a long moment. His fingers clutched at the tear in her coat as he rested his hand on the chair behind her. He leaned over, trying to deduce it out, but there wasn't enough to figure all of it out.

Her eyes dropped to the table as she curved her body away from him. She was pissed about last night and she had to hold it in like everything else. She wasn't worried about what had happened to her; the worst was some bruising, nothing had been taken. She was _fine_ as she supposedly had been all this time, and she would continue to say that she was.

She was also completely ignoring the fact that she was attacked, and denying that it had any impact on her mental well-being, which it clearly did. Why was she being so stubborn? Why was she being… like him? He deserved every bit of this though; for being so weak, so pathetic, but this was concern for her. He wanted to make sure that she was okay.

He noticed her hesitation and took a slight step back, seeing the way her body language changed. She almost looked scared, but he didn't understand why. He knew she was angry, knew she was morose, but there was no reason to be afraid. He thought maybe she couldn't look at him, wouldn't meet his eyes because she had expected better of him, but the overwhelming feeling was of failure.

Finally standing from her chair with her coffee in hand, she gave a weak smile as she kept her eyes away from him. "I'm not hurt, Sherlock, it's not important," she whispered, making great effort for her voice to not sound upset and harsh. He looked down to where her eyes were set as she hesitated, noticing the bruise forming on his arm from where the needle had punctured his skin. He glanced at it a moment, taking in how severe this matter was, and how serious _she_ was taking it. She stood there for only a moment longer before making her way to the sitting room, isolating herself in her chair.

Sherlock returned to his position on the sofa, watching her when she pretended not to look at him. Molly refused to leave him alone now, she couldn't imagine what would happen if she left him alone again. He could find more drugs; he could take too much, or even more than he had taken this time. As upset as she was, it wasn't worth it, she would blame herself if she risked that and let it happen again.

* * *

Her head was spinning as she was trying to find a reply to the text John had sent her. She felt nauseous at the thought of hiding from him what Sherlock had done. John had more experience with living with Sherlock than she did; definitely not under the same circumstances, but still. She wanted to ask what to do, because she had no idea how to approach the situation. It made her sick, made her concerned. She was barely sleeping trying to keep an eye on him and it had only been a few days.

And then there was a text from Mycroft; he had known something was going on, but Molly tried to tear away from the subject. She knew it wouldn't help if Mycroft found out because there was nothing anyone could have done anyway. She needed to figure out a way to get him to feel better, to get him to not repeat the act. He said he wouldn't, but he's Sherlock, and she couldn't always figure out what was going on in that mind of his.

As she was walking down the hall she was trying to find the right words to reply to Mycroft, staring down at her phone. Her steps halted as she felt her shoulders gripped by someone, realising that she had almost walked into Sherlock. She looked up at him and recognised his close proximity; this was much closer than he usually was.

He was looking at her to say anything, to give her some kind of confirmation of something, he didn't even know what. It made him uncomfortable though, he didn't like change. He felt like he had lost her after what he'd done. She stuck it through with him when it happened, made sure he was conscious, everything in that sense, but she wasn't saying much now and it was bothering him.

He moved closer to her now, noses almost touching as he looked into her eyes. Molly breathed in a sharp breath as she let her eyes drop, trying with great difficulty to keep her gaze away from his lips, but she let them stare just a second too long.

"You almost walked into me," he finally breathed.

"Sorry," she replied, quickly but quietly, looking around apprehensively as she made an attempt to step away from him; he stopped her though. He kept his grip on her shoulders, trying to convince her to look back up at him, but she wouldn't; she _couldn't_.

She breathed in again as she felt his hand come up and linger on her cheek. He needed to know what was going on in her head; he knew he could always just deduce what someone was thinking, but not this time. Sherlock was unaware of how long this was going to take. This was Molly Hooper; she normally caved by now, normally forgave him and went on like things were normal. But this was just so different; he stared at her, hoping she would just say something else, let go of all of this. He was so focused he didn't realise that her mouth was gravitating towards his, didn't realise that if it happened, he may have welcomed it. He was so desperate for some kind of contact, and he was getting nothing.

She hesitated just before her lips were touching his, telling herself to stop. His gaze raked upon her mouth as he waited, completely still, his breath caught in his throat. Molly knew this wouldn't help the situation; it would only make it worse when he pushed her away like he usually did. There was no way he'd want her; she just needed to stay out of his way and watch from a distance.

She finally stepped away from him and moved in the direction of her room, too overwhelmed.

She pressed her back up against the door and closed her eyes as she breathed in and out through her nose. Molly's actions showed her selfless personality, but her mind and her heart were being so selfish. She was trying desperately to put together this broken man, but her heart was screaming for him, and it was breaking her. She loved him and it pained her to see him do what he did. But he would have moments, you could argue that they were out of vulnerability or that they were out of strength to fight for the old Sherlock, and she would clutch to those. She wanted him in every way and she was never going to have him. In the back of her head though, there was a thread of hope that someday she would be able to truly show her love to the man who divorces himself from feelings, but with requited ones himself.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been eight days since Sherlock's drug incident; eight days, seven hours, and nineteen minutes. Molly had barely spoken to him in those eight days and it was unnerving. Sherlock was eating and sleeping regularly now, even if she didn't directly ask him to; he at least owed her that.

The same thing could not be said for Molly. She would eat regularly, but she hardly slept. An hour or two here and there when she needed it, but there was a constant obligatory duty to be watchful of Sherlock and it was dragging her down. She was letting all of the stress from recent events build up, and making it worse on her mental state when she resisted getting rest.

She sat in the chair of the sitting room and averted her eyes down to her coffee whenever Sherlock glanced her way. If anyone looked at her, she would seem like she was calm, but Sherlock could see through it. Whenever she put her coffee down he could see her hands trembling, both from over-excessive amounts of caffeine and stress- the caffeine was the only thing keeping her eyes open.

Sherlock watched her as she kept her gaze on her cup, looking at him out of the corner of her eye every so often. Her eyes would slip closed every few minutes as she continued to fight off the sleep that she needed.

Sherlock was still battling this need for some kind of contact, a presence. There was definitely a sense of a person being there since she was always by him, but it was not the same. Her very weak smiles when she noticed him staring, her quiet stillness, it was driving him insane. She tried so hard in one aspect to be there for him more than ever, and in another she had seemed to disappear.

Keeping herself upbeat for Sherlock's sake before his incident had subconsciously kept her more positive than she could have been, but everything came hurling down on her shoulders now and Sherlock watched as it happened. He needed things to go back to how they were, he needed _her_ emotionally. He told himself he only wanted it from a distance, but that was a lie. He wanted to close the large gap that she had created when her disappointment of his drug use dazed her.

She finally stood up and made her way into the kitchen, looking a bit disoriented as she went. It had looked like she was going to do something, but she faltered into a chair.

He stood up and, walking over to the kitchen table, looked down at her sceptically. He wasn't sure how to begin. He had been feeling awful and pushing her out, but he didn't like the silence. He had been so annoyed before by her constant need to check up on him, to ask him questions, to casually try and make some small talk. Now that he didn't get it, he was missing it. There was barely anything now; she watched him precariously, but her lips remained pressed together. The lump in her throat had been there permanently for days, suppressing what wanted to be said; that had wanted to come out long before Sherlock had come home with the drugs.

"Molly."

She shook her head, "No, it's not- I don't-" but she bit down on her tongue.

He stared at her, still trying to find the right words, but the consulting detective didn't have any, nothing sounded right- nothing he would be able to say to her would make it okay.

"It was foolish of me."

"Foolish?" she spat out. She was losing her cool demeanour she had tried so hard to keep surfaced. "I'm not sure that covers what…" but she stopped and shook her head; she couldn't do this. This was a conversation she just couldn't deal with. She didn't _want_ to hold in what she was feeling anymore, but she still felt that she needed to.

They sat there in silence for a moment before she finally spoke up again and stood. "I need some air.  
She hesitated before she continued: "Could you keep yourself from harm for five…" she paused for a moment, taking in a hard breath, "minutes… while I…" but she kept faltering. Her hand grabbed onto the edge of the table as she stood, her breathing heavy and fast. Her hands shook as she gripped the table forcefully, her body practically swaying.

Sherlock was closer to her immediately, his hand lightly gripping her elbow. His hand moved to her wrist noting her racing pulse, her rapid heartbeat as she breathed more unevenly now. "What is..." she was shaking her head again, not understanding what was going on.

"Molly, you're having a panic attack."

"No, I'm not," she said, her eyes wide as she lowered herself so she was kneeling on the floor, her legs tucked under her. She braced one arm against her stomach as she leaned forward, trying to fill her lungs. "I can't," she said looking up at him.

He looked at her confused.

"I can't lose it. What good am I if I'm falling apart trying to piece you back together," she blurted out. She hadn't meant to say it, but it just came out. She was finding it immensely difficult to control what she was saying, but she needed to say it. She had closed herself up and the build-up, in combination with the fatigue, was encouraging this reaction.

He understood now, taking in what she was saying. "Molly, it's okay," he tried to soothe, his eyes soft and concerned. "Just calm down, it's alright."

She breathed heavily, choking out sobs now and looking at the floor as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. "No, Sherlock, it's not fucking alright. Last week I found you unconscious with a needle in your arm. How does that in any way constitute as a form of fine? You're worth so much more than that; you have so much to go back to. But you won't let me in, you won't let anyone in."

She was crying harder now and she continued to shake her head. He lifted her chin up, "Molly, _breathe_."

She ignored his pleas of trying to get her to calm; she was nowhere near calm. "And look at me, a piece of rubbish. I've been trying so hard to fix you, but you won't even let me, and I've failed. I thought you were improving when we went to the shops, but instead you got away from me as quick as you could." He could hear the defeat in her voice; he felt his chest constrict as the words fell from her lips. "To get drugs- a quick fix that just made it worse. If I hadn't come back," her eyes were bulging as she dreaded to think what might have happened if he was left there unconscious.

Sherlock lifted her chin up so that she was looking at him, but she let her eyes slip closed; trying to gain some kind of control over her emotions- it was useless. She inhaled a hard, shaking breath, crying as she did so. "I just… I just want to sleep, but I can't." She sounded so lost, so defeated, and Sherlock couldn't do anything except blame himself for putting her in that position.

Sherlock picked her up now and she was pressed against his chest, carrying her into the bedroom. The first thing she needed right now was to relax, but she needed to sleep; the extreme fatigue was further instigating her state.

He set her down on the bed and, for some reason, felt compelled to lie next to her. So he climbed in onto his slide and continued to try and calm her. "Molly," he breathed, not knowing what else he could say to soothe her.

Her breathing seemed like it was becoming a bit lighter, but she couldn't stop crying. She turned around so her back was facing him. She hated him seeing her like this; she closed her eyes tight as her trembling hands gripped his arm that wrapped around her side. She couldn't handle the embarrassment of herself and the discomfort she thought she was causing him. "I'm sorry."

"Just focus, it's alright."

She was quiet now, a few tears escaping down her cheeks, but her broken sobs had subsided. She was getting control of her lungs more as she settled, her eyes becoming heavy as her breath slowed and her heart rate stabilised.

As he sensed her gradual relaxing, he allowed his own heart to calm. It pained him to see that he had caused this; break her down until she was a sobbing, exhausted mess. He needed to be better for her right now. For the first time _she_ was the one breaking down and _he_ was the one pushing everything aside because that was all that mattered to him. She had done so much, and although she was hysterical, everything she had said was true.

She finally turned around to look at him again as he examined her with careful eyes, assuring himself that she was fine.

"I'm furious with you," she whispered.

"I know," he said, letting out a sigh. "Rest- you've barely slept."

Her eyes closed as she continued to talk, pressing her face against his chest. "Because I'm afraid of what could happen to you again."

He was still for a second at her closeness, but said nothing of it. "I gave you my word, Molly. I rarely make promises, but I meant it," he replied.

She nodded softly; sleep starting to shut down her brain as she relaxed fully in his arms.

* * *

Molly stirred, her eyes still closed as she realised she was still pressed up against Sherlock. She could hear his soft, slow breathing as he slept next to her. She opened her eyes and saw how peaceful he looked; it was probably the first time she had seen him like this.

She was feeling her shy self again though, looking around because she wanted to get out of the bed, but one arm was wrapped around her as he remained in his position.

She groaned internally, realising that there was no swift way out of this. She laid there for almost ten minutes before she finally just gave in and gently moved the arm that was wrapped around her, slipping out of the bed and moving quietly into the bathroom.

Sherlock had opened his eyes just as he saw Molly escaping into the bathroom. He knew there would be a conversation soon, and he had no idea what to say. He knew he was going to get reprimanded even though he had promised her he wouldn't do it again. He deserved it; it's not common that people come home to someone nearly overdosing.

On the other side of the door, Molly was letting the hot water hit her body; she still felt so tired and over-exerted from the anxiety attack she had had the previous night. It was odd though, Sherlock was so comforting, and she didn't expect it. Maybe it was just a repayment from when she helped him.

Molly came out of the bathroom after showering and drying her hair to see the kettle on with two empty mugs ready to be filled once it was boiled.

She sat down in the chair next to him and he somewhat acknowledged her presence but kept his eyes glued to his laptop. She was feeling a bit uncomfortable as she fiddled with the edges of yesterday's newspaper, trying to keep herself occupied as Sherlock read.

She figured that they would sit in silence until she broke it, like they usually did. But she looked over to him as his laptop was closed now and he was looking around a bit nervously. "You're feeling better then?"

She was surprised at his words. "Yes, uhm- I am, thanks," she gave a small smile as his gaze turned to her. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke up again. "I'm sorry- about last night, I mean. I kind of lost myself for a second and-"

"You're apologising for a panic attack?" he asked, confusion on his face, "indirectly induced by me."

"It isn't your fault, Sherlock. I should have been more careful…" She was about to continue, but glanced down at his arm. _Great_ she thought.

He watched her frantic eyes as she pulled his arm closer to her. He didn't retaliate though, letting her do what she needed. She pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, but to her surprise only one nicotine patch was attached to his arm and she relaxed. As she continued to stare at his arm, feeling awkward from her movement, she kept her eyes down on the patch. "And I- well- a lot of this wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been trying to push you out the door."

Within seconds of her saying that his hand was cupping her chin so she was forced to look up at him. "Molly," he said, a pained expression on his face as her eyes met his; he was in disbelief. "Do _not_ blame yourself for what I chose to do."

She gave a slight nod as his hand moved to cup her cheek, they were staring at each other silently and his body was closer to hers. He strangely liked the closeness between them, craving the intimacy like when she had fallen asleep in his arms. He was craving it now; it gave him some sort of comfort he hadn't experienced before.

"I know that you promised, Sherlock," she said, closing her eyes now to keep her thoughts straight, "but you can't just use a quick fix to get away from everything. You risk your health enough as it is… you can't just…"

Her words were more desperate now, trying to get him to understand. "You have people that care about you, Sherlock. And I know that everything isn't exactly perfect, but I have hope that things will get better, and that you can return to Baker Street and work with John again."

His eyes were soft again as he listened to her intently, not interrupting her at all. There was a strange sort of comfortable feeling she was having with him now as she grabbed his hand that was cupping her cheek and brought it down to the table, lacing her fingers with his. "_I _care about you, Sherlock, and I hate seeing you fall apart. If there is something, anything that I can do to help you, to make this go quicker, please just tell me."

She bit her lip as her sentence trailed off, waiting for some kind of response. He was quiet, taking in her words as her eyes lowered away from his gaze.

She looked back up at him when he squeezed her hand and broke the silence. "I am sorry," he began, hesitating for a moment. "Last night, you said that I won't let anyone in, and that is because emotions are not… my area."

"It's okay, Sherlock; that takes time, just like everything else…"

Molly leaned in and kissed his cheek, and only pulled her head slightly back before Sherlock turned his head to face her. He was so close to her as her gaze went to his eyes and then straight down to look at his mouth.

She wanted him so bad, just as she always did. She started to lean in, their lips almost touching as the kettle started whistling and it caused her to jump back a little.

Her face turned scarlet as she immediately stood up to fetch the kettle. She sighed softly, angry at the kettle for interrupting what almost was… something? Did he want to? She pondered as she almost overflowed the mugs.

She brought them back and set one before Sherlock as he looked at her, trying to place his emotions. He was never one for feelings or sentiment, but he felt something with Molly that he had never felt before.

He looked down at his laptop and pretended to focus on whatever was on the screen.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Finally a lighter chapter, giving you a break from emotional turmoil for a bit! Hope you enjoy! I also want to thank the people who have been reviewing all along and also the people who have only just started reviewing. Regardless, I appreciate it! 3**

The next few weeks saw a bit of improvement, for Sherlock and for Molly.

Sherlock had admittedly faltered back to some of his common bad habits. The eating was rare and sleeping infrequent, but still better than when they had first arrived. One of the biggest improvements was the way he acted towards Molly. He barely insulted her, and although it was difficult and the conversation didn't go very far, he tried his best to be somewhat open with her.

Molly knew he was trying, and that's all that mattered. It made her smile to see him doing better, but she knew there was a lot he kept in. He was still worried that she would have another panic attack, still in apprehension of himself and his feelings.

It still drove him mad that Moran was out there, and that Mycroft's men, in his opinion, were doing a terrible job at finding him. The ignorance of men of the government working under Mycroft, no matter how much training, did not have the knowledge to find someone like Moran. A person so like Moriarty who had means of trapping, manipulating, and ruining people.

Molly decided that she wasn't going to tell Mycroft what Sherlock did. In a way, she figured that he already knew anyway; and he did, Mycroft knew everything. On the phone Mycroft would be hesitant when asking about Sherlock, almost weary that something else had happened. It was never something he would admit to though; the Holmes brothers did not let their hearts fall to their sleeves. They would not be weak, but would hide themselves behind an isolated wall.

There was nothing more that could be done anyway. He couldn't change what he did; the bruise faded, but the memory stayed vivid in both Sherlock and Molly's minds. Sherlock had been done with drugs a long time ago; he always felt foggy for days after. His mind would still run rampant, but lacked the sharpness of his usual precision. He knew that it was the last time though. After seeing the look on Molly's face after he had done it, the second his vision cleared with his head in her lap, it was enough to convince him that it wouldn't happen again.

She had also never reacted that way before. She went days barely sleeping, barely functioning- blaming herself for his mistake and so she made herself pay for it too. She was risking enough of her life and her time being there with him. He almost had an understanding now of what people felt when they saw his damaged, dysfunctional way of living. It may have explained why he was more compliant now with basic functioning needs.

He had more of a desire to sleep now anyway, or at least lay with her at night if his mind refused to let him sleep. After she had slept against him, he realised that he liked that feeling of closeness. Her distant week from him made him understand the extent of how much he needed her there for and with him, how much she was actually doing for him- it was even more than she was expected. He would never understand why she cared for him so much after everything he's done to her, the way he's treated her. But, it was more evident than ever as he started to understand the way the mind works in the essence of caring for others. He had always cared for those close to him as much as he would not admit, but he began to structure a room for what caring is, and why it may matter in some aspects. Molly took up a large portion of that room.

When she slept at night, she would always wake up to find Sherlock doing something different. Depending on how she was laying on him he would be… admiring wasn't the word, but she loved the close proximity. Sometimes he would be delicately tracing shapes along her back or her shoulder; sometimes he would give feather light kisses to her head or her small fingers if they were close enough. He appreciated her more now; the same Sherlock, but kinder.

She would never mention it and they never talked about it; they went along with their day as if their comfort in each other didn't exist. Well, Sherlock did better with it than she did. Molly couldn't find a way to get her mind off of it. She loved it, and it made her happy to see him like this, but she couldn't find herself to believe that cold, stern Sherlock was so gentle with her- as if she was as fragile as glass. His eyes were always soft if she woke up against him, and she could almost see a smile curved at the corners of his lips. It was so odd, so strange; Sherlock had never had interest in her. There was no way; she assumed that it was his source of comfort from being homesick. He missed John and Baker Street, and Molly had become the only familiar thing from London. So he clutched to it to hold on to the memories because he still had no idea when and if he could go home.

Or that's what she told herself to keep from believing that he cared. Sherlock had been away for months now, and he didn't have a choice in when this ended. She missed home- maybe not as much as he did, but she still missed it. Technically, she could go back whenever she wanted, but that would never even cross her mind.

One night he lay there, running his fingers through her hair as he watched her peaceful slumber. The pads of his fingers glided gently through her silky hair and she gave a small sigh in her sleep, pressing herself closer. She had always fallen asleep with a distance between them, but it wouldn't take long before she unconsciously gravitated toward him, and he always knew it was coming. It overwhelmed him to feel the way that he did, and he still didn't understand what it actually _was_ that he was experiencing.

_I don't have friends. I've only got one._

That wasn't necessarily the whole truth anymore. What was Molly to him anyway? Colleague? No- that sounded absolutely wrong now- it was too professional, much too formal for what he had shared with her. There was a growing intimacy between them; not in a sexual way, but he was starting to get to know her. She would try to help him when he attempted to be open with her by explaining things about her past that related to what he was trying to say and what she felt at the time. He had been uncomfortable and distant about it at first, but it got easier as she did it more. She wanted him to feel more comfortable, to feel better, and to abandon this feeling of being completely trapped. She tried her hardest to do so, which he somehow recognized.

When Sherlock noticed a piece of hair fall into Molly's face, he moved his hand to push it out of the way. He heard her release a small breath and knew that he had stirred her, so he dropped his hand to his side, waiting for her to fall back to sleep as she usually would.

Instead though, she rubbed one of her eyes and turned her head to look up at Sherlock. She was always surprised even though this became routine now. She felt a bit shy as she moved her head away from his chest and back on to her pillow. The cloth felt cold against her skin, and surprisingly did not feel as comfortable as his hard muscled chest, making her shiver.

She lay on her side, both of them quiet as she admired him in the moonlit room. He was pale, especially in this light as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes open. He never felt the need to pretend that he was asleep; she knew that he didn't very often. She watched as his chest calmly rose and fell to match his breathing pattern. He was so beautiful and all her body was telling her was to gravitate back towards him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Finally Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing Molly with his head at the edge of his pillow. He stared at her as he had moved himself closer watching her nervousness get the best of her. He heard a quiet breath sneak out from between her slightly parted lips, and it fascinated him to see the lapsed time of her pupils dilating. By the time his face was a few inches from hers, they were blown black; only tiny rims of the deep brown chocolate in her eyes remained.

His hand had already moved so that two fingers gently rested against her pulse, a slight pressure from the side of his finger against her jaw, her heart beat out of control. She didn't even notice the dilation of his eyes, but if her fingers had touched his pulse, or even his chest, she would have felt the rapid heartbeat. He was much better at hiding it than she was.

She saw the corner of his lips turn up into a smirk as he observed her and immediately realised she was staring at his mouth. In a way, this was his form of teasing her. It was not the first time he moved close to her and it made her squirm every time.

She inhaled though, and a determined look came upon her as she edged her face just a little bit closer to his, challenging him. If she rounded, her mouth was just an inch away from his. He didn't budge though; he wanted to but was hesitating. His eyes remained intent on her lips.

Molly could only handle her position for a minute or two before she went to move away, her head beginning to move further back on the pillow. Something stopped her though; she immediately felt his fingers leave her pulse to cup her whole cheek, a gentle tug that demanded that she remain close to him.

She wanted to lean further into his touch, but her head swam; the scent of him invigorating. "Sherlock," she whispered. "What are you doing?"

"I don't… understand," he said, struggling with his words- they sounded completely raw coming from his throat. "This _feeling_ that I have."

"What? Feeling for what?" she said, her attention full on his eyes now, trying to understand what he meant.

His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. "This," he said as he let the grip of his hand tighten just a bit on her face, still delicate against Molly's skin. His thumb grazed delicately over her cheekbone as he continued to speak. His deep, baritone voice encompassed her as he spoke: "I haven't felt this before. Caring, sentiment- whatever emotional word you prefer to call it."

Then it finally clicked in her head. Oh. _Oh_. Oh shit. Was he saying that he cared about her? She must have been misinterpreting somehow. Her mouth parted as if she was going to speak, but she couldn't find any words; there was no way that he meant that he felt sentiment, not for her. She didn't know how else to interpret it though. She didn't move; she let her stare fall down to his lips again as she bit down on her own, desperately wanting to believe his words.

Sherlock only saw disbelief in her eyes as he attempted to confess. She understood what he was saying, but thought it impossible; he nodded at her to try and disprove her.

He finally closed the painful distance between them and let his lips find hers. He heard her gasp inwardly, and in the next second she was dedicated to the soft lips that made her lose herself. Immediately she let loose of the desperate need for him that she had tried her best to hide away for so long. She had wanted him since the moment she met him and he had captured her heart and her mouth, silencing the constriction in her chest that she always had when near him.

Sherlock had been so gentle, kissing her completely adequate sized mouth (that opinion had changed rather quickly) over and over as he sank into the feeling he had fought off. When he went to pull away, she felt something surge through her that refused to be parted from what she had wanted, what she _needed_. "Sherlock," she whispered quietly as she moved her lips to his again, quickly taking control of the situation as her body moved closer to his.

She let her tongue slide along his lower lip as a tiny groan parted his mouth, allowing her access as she let her open-mouthed kisses explore him. He wrapped an arm around her waist as he let his mind spin, hormones surging through his body that yearned for her.

Molly fit perfectly against him-like she had belonged there- and all he could think about was her; her lips, her tongue, the way that she gasped, allowing him to take in that precious sound that made him want her more. Everything else was silenced from his mind completely as her hip bones pressed against his. This deep, intimate feeling overwhelmed him as he broke away from her mouth, panting heavily as he pressed his forehead to hers.

She pulled a hand up to cup his cheek now, her eyes darting to his as she looked for what she feared; she worried that he had regretted what he started. She saw no remorse, and no rejection came. He saw the anxiousness in her eyes as she searched, but she saw that familiar smirk return to his slightly glistening lips as he returned his mouth to hers; the kiss was filled with more passion than she could have imagined. She had never felt such intensity for someone over a kiss, over the way that _he_ kissed her, but no one else seemed to matter as she had never in her life felt for someone the way that she did for Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I really like this chapter so I hope you guys do too. Enjoy :)**

Sherlock's eyes fell open to the sound of ruffling in the kitchen. He turned to find the other side of the bed empty, nostalgia hitting him as he remembered what happened the previous night.

He had let his feelings come forward, confessed to Molly things he never thought he would to anyone. Sentiment was always weak, but Sherlock felt _better_ the closer he became with Molly. He would have crumbled completely if it hadn't been for her. He had been craving more contact with her the entire time they had been here, and it was only now that he was giving in to it. It was with Molly that he had found some sort of solace when he had felt like his life had actually ended that day at Bart's.

He had felt for her longer than this, but was able to suppress it better before. All of this time with her allowed proof to settle in, to prove that he really did need Molly in more ways that he originally thought.

This wasn't over though, all of this muddled mess with Moran, and he didn't forget it. It still haunted him, but Molly enabled his mind to rest. Even if it was only for a few fleeting moments, she gave him what he craved. He would be lying though to say that was the only reason he felt for her.

He got out of bed and walked into the sitting room, fashioning a dressing gown that looked just like his favourite blue one at home as he went to sit down on the sofa. Molly had bought it for him when she had went shopping, hoping that it would make him a little less homesick. The thoughtful Molly was right; it helped but he didn't confess that.

She brought over a plate of food to him without saying anything, feeling like a nervous schoolgirl. She tried to figure out if what had happened the previous night was just a dream or if it was real. She bit her lip thinking about the way his mouth had captured hers, the way his hands felt against her skin, and she wanted more of it.

Sherlock noticed her staring at him and lost in thought from the corner of his eye. When he realised her eyes were dilated he let out a soft chuckle, breaking Molly from her daydream. She cleared her throat as she picked up her plate, finally beginning to eat her food when she realised that he had already finished his. She was happy that she convinced him somehow to eat more.

He was twisting his phone in his hand, clearly waiting for something. Mycroft had neither texted Sherlock nor called Molly recently. As much as Sherlock was glad about last night, they were here to eliminate Moran so he could go home. He had been away from London for a while now, and he had been hiding even longer. He often remembered that it was not only him who was pulled away from his home in the midst of this mess. Molly had a brilliant mind, and instead of utilizing it to examine bodies in a morgue, she was sitting in a flat in France, waiting with him.

"Nothing from Mycroft yet?" Molly finally spoke as she put her plate down on the coffee table.

"No," he said, his pout almost resembling that of a child's. She didn't blame him; he was frustrated, anxious to go home. He had been reckless about all of this just a few weeks ago, but there had been improvement and it didn't seem as though it was going to happen again. It meant that her being there was doing _something_.

Sherlock sighed as he lay down now, throwing the phone to the table before resting his head in Molly's lap. He closed his eyes as he let his legs drape over the arm of the other side of the sofa.

Under his frustration of Moran she saw pure boredom. Molly couldn't wait for the day where they were at home and his eyes blazed with curiosity from a new case. She wanted to see him feel alive again.

"Soon…" she said softly, trying to soothe him. Her finger traced around the edge of his ear and down his jaw as she admired the structure of his beautiful face. She hesitated now as she wanted to move her finger to graze across his lips, but she was still unsure of last night. She let her hand fall into her lap as she let him remain comfortable in his spot.

As he felt her hand drop to her side, he opened his eyes to look up at her to see her smiling down at him. He sat up for a second, lifting her legs up and forcing her to move into a position so that she was lying on the sofa next to him. Her back was pressed up against the back of the couch as she lay on her side, Sherlock turning so that he was facing her now.

Molly had noticed before when he was unhappy, and she still noticed it. He was looking down at each of their hands next to each other, comparing the protrusion of his knuckles compared to hers. She could see the sadness in him, the anxiousness, and she wished she could do more for him (Sherlock would have argued that she was doing _too _much, but she felt otherwise).

"You look sad," she remarked, breaking his concentration from her hand and up to her face. This was yet another time where he had to force himself to try and be more open, which was still difficult for him. He didn't know what to say, so he only gave a nod in reply, his finger trailing softly over her knuckles.

She waited patiently in silence. If he didn't want to talk about it, she would leave it alone. She only wanted to try and make him feel better.

"I am still stuck, and unable to return to London. Mycroft's men are incapable, and all I have done is sit here. It's meaningless…" he said as he finally looked away from her, "pointless." The end of his sentence turned into a sigh.

"When you really want something, Sherlock, it's always worth the wait." She had meant it in more than one sense; not just for him, but for herself. She let her eyes flicker momentarily to his mouth and then back up to his eyes.

"There is a chance that it will be too dangerous for me to return at all." His face was pensive now, grave. But that was one option, one theory. He stared into the cushion now as he spoke. "You will have no choice but to return to London eventually."

"Sherlock," she said, her voice a bit higher as she spoke. When he looked up at her again, her eyes were glassy. She didn't want to think about going home without knowing he was safe to go too. The last thing she wanted was to return, not ever be able to see him. Even if things went back to their normal relationship when they returned, she couldn't just have him… gone. "You are not always required to think of everything in the logical sense, but sometimes dwelling on something that could happen… it just- it doesn't help. I know that it's frustrating, and I know you've been waiting forever, but-_ I_ have all the hope in the world that you will figure out a way to get home and be safe. Make sure that everyone else is safe; I believe in you and I always have. Even if you don't believe it, I do."

"I lo-" she cut herself off immediately, closing her eyes to recompose herself. "I care- about you, and I won't think that you won't be able to come home." Her voice was practically a whisper now. "I'll be damned if I don't at least try to convince you to believe in yourself as much as I do."

She was afraid, terrified at the thought of him not coming home. She felt sad herself, but immediately upon finishing her sentence, she let a smile shine from her face. She wanted to be confident for him if he wouldn't be for himself.

This time, he didn't note how quickly her eyes dilated or how quick her heart was beating (which was practically out of her chest). Instead, he looked at her carefully, and recognised the fear in her eyes the second he had mentioned his chances of not coming home. She was so loyal, so dedicated, and he had done nothing to deserve it.

It was still new trying to understand caring for someone in this way, and her reactions gave a wordless explanation. He brought his hand up to cup her chin, letting his thumb graze over her lip as she pressed a small kiss to it. As his hand moved up to cup her face, she closed her eyes, letting herself rest against his warm hand. She looked calmed from his touch now as she lay there silent, contentedly.

In that moment when Sherlock's hand touched her face so gently, she knew with her whole heart that last night was, in fact, real. Clear, sharp, and true, and no one could take that away from her. She wanted nothing more than to lay like this with him for an eternity.

She moved her mouth against his as he wrapped his arm around her side, pulling her closer against him. Molly let out a whine as Sherlock's tongue snaked her lips apart, only to give her passionate kisses that made her mind melt. He bit at her lower lip, enjoying the small mewls escaping from her with every action he experimented.

Her pleasure became his pleasure as she moved her mouth down to kiss along his neck. Her gentle, soft hands found their way under the hem of his shirt, feeling his sculpted body. She found herself wanting him more as he granted her more access.

Sherlock's skin tingled in a satisfying sort of way at Molly's touch beneath the fabric, the chaos of hormones and emotions overwhelming him. He had really never experienced anything like this before, not with this much intensity. Not even in his uni years when he experimented a few times did he feel this way, react this way. He knew that he would need her one day, but now he _wanted _her.

Molly squeaked as her body was under Sherlock's now, a pleasured groan escaping from his lips as their hips grazed against each other harder than before. Molly pulled her hands out from beneath his shirt and wrapped them around his neck. Sherlock had one hand braced against the cushion next to her head to keep himself steady above her, but his other refused to leave her skin. His fingers delicately stroked along the side of her jaw and she leaned into the touch, the other side of her neck fully exposed to him. He let his lips give her the attention she seeked, pleasuring every inch of her delicate skin around her collarbone, leaving a flushed colour behind.

He then began to nip and bite, his fingers leaving her face to trail down and cup one of her breasts. He felt her arms slide away from his neck as they cupped his face, nudging him to move his mouth back to hers. He complied, but Molly took over in the kiss. Her tongue slid around, she nipped at him; she was losing herself in the feeling against his lips and she would never get enough of the taste of him.

They both broke away from the kiss as Sherlock buried his face in her hair, his nose nudging and nuzzling the side of her neck. Molly let her head rest against the side of Sherlock's, her fingers coming up to delicately tousle the curls at the nape of his neck.

After a quiet moment, he lifted his head so he could look at her. Molly left her fingers entangled in his hair as she waited for him to make a next move. He let his lips drift back to hers. Sherlock let one hand slide down to the hem of her shirt, with all intentions of letting his hands explore under the fabric, to push the shirt up and pull it off her, but the moment was broken by a vibration against the coffee table. They both looked over to Sherlock's phone to see the screen lit up and Mycroft's name across it.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock walked around by himself, looking at things, but not really seeing them. He let his mind wander to places far off as he read Mycroft's words repeatedly in his head.

_Moran is within a 5 mile radius of you. _

As much as he hated his brother, he was secretly grateful for all that he was doing, even if they weren't doing a good job. As cold and as calculating as the Holmes' boys were known to be, Mycroft loved Sherlock; he'd always cared for him, he just showed it in a different way. It was not something that others understood, but Mycroft took the role of big brother while Sherlock let his stern annoyance continue to tell Mycroft he resented him.

He was on high alert, out searching, looking for anything that could lead him in the right direction. This would all be over soon, but Sherlock was not stupid to think that this would not get a lot worse before it got better. He rearranged through his mind palace, cataloguing the information he had on Moran differently, piecing it together.

As Sherlock was walking around the market, Molly was having difficulty as she tried to figure out what to get, distracted by what was going through her head. She thought of what Sherlock had said, but she also thought of the danger that would soon come. She would be there for him, she would do anything that he asked of her- of course she would, and that's how she's always been.

She knew there was danger for her, but it made her more nervous to think of the danger for him. This was all about him, it always had been, and if Moran was this close, he knew Sherlock was here, and he knew Sherlock was after Moran just as much as Moran was after him.

Molly was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't realised that there was someone within her personal space, creeping behind her, until he spoke, barely in an audible whisper. "You ungrateful bitch; I save your life and you won't even have a coffee with me."

She froze dead, not knowing how to respond. What to do or what to say. She wished Sherlock had not walked away now, terrified of what was going to happen. She knew it was the man she had run into on more than one occasion, why was he still following her?

He gripped her wrist tightly, squeezing enough so that the pain made her want to scream. "Make a sound and you put everyone in danger here, Miss Hooper," he hissed. "And please do think of your beloved Sherlock."

Molly's eyes widened, her teeth gritting, but she was stock still; everything clicked now as his words rang through her ears. All was falling into place, the man that was making himself known, wanting to be seen. Letting people see him was him making his move. It was on the person unexpected; Molly had never had anything to do directly with this, but wouldn't that make her the more obvious choice? She did save Sherlock, after all.

"Now," he said, pulling her into him. It looked as if they were having a private conversation. Anyone else looking at them would think they were just a couple. "You'd like Sherlock safe, wouldn't you?" he breathed on the back of her neck, moving his face closer to her ear.

She nodded compliantly, still not moving her head as he slipped a phone into her pocket. "If I find out you've said a word to him, he's dead, you're dead; you will not ruin this for me. You will keep this phone by you at your side, and Sherlock will not know that you have it. You will wait for my instructions."

He was out of her sight before she even looked up, her hand immediately rubbing her sore wrist. She stood there staring at the tea, pretending to be intent on finding one as she processed what had happened.

It was Moran, she knew from the second he had addressed her last name who he was. She didn't know what she was about to do, but she knew this was going to be bad. She hadn't the slightest idea how she was going to hide this from Sherlock; he noticed everything, but it was just going to require her best efforts.

Sherlock rounded the corner to see Molly rubbing her wrist with a strained look on her face. He narrowed his eyes as he watched, but when her hand dropped down to her side and she looked back up (mechanically) to the tea, he disregarded it.

He came up close behind her before speaking. They were definitely on a closer level now, and Sherlock felt something different with her; he liked the physical contact when he struggled with the emotional. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Ready?"

Molly jumped, a gasp escaping her lips. It was only loud enough for Sherlock to hear, but full-fledged panic tensed throughout her body from his sudden movement.

She exhaled before looking up to him. "What? Yeah, all set," she said, grabbing whatever tea her eyes fixed on first. "Sorry, you frightened me."

_Jesus, Molly_ she said to herself. This was not a good start to hiding things from Sherlock. She walked ahead before he could say anything else, trying to search for the checkout counter.

Sherlock's stride put him next to her quickly and he looked at her sceptically, brushing it aside again. He took it in as a mental note though; the only logical thing that would make her afraid was Mycroft's text, so he figured that was what bothered her. They were out in the open, and Moran was within a five mile radius, so what else would it be?

* * *

Molly stood up from the bed and began pacing back and forth. After they had come back from the grocery store, she was quick to take a shower. It was the best place to clear her head.

She had taken her time in the shower and getting dressed afterwards. She saw tints of a bruise that was forming on her skin from Moran; lovely. She ruffled through her coat sitting on the bed and took the phone out; the one he had given her. She flashed the screen on, but there was nothing, no message yet. She had no idea how long it would be, but as the minutes passed, they dragged heavily.

As she examined the case around the phone she realised it looked identical to her own. The only difference in the phone was when she pressed the button to view the screen. Unless Sherlock was fumbling with her phone, he wouldn't be able to tell that it was different.

She had to do this though. She had even told Sherlock herself that if she could help in any way, she would do it. Molly had a chance to protect him, and she was going to do her best. He was important; London needs him back, his friends need him back. She let out a small sigh as she locked the phone and put it safely in her pocket.

Molly walked into the sitting room to find Sherlock lying across the sofa, his dressing gown wrapped around him. His head lay back against the arm of the sofa, his eyes closed as his head faced the ceiling. He didn't even notice Molly come in as he was already lost, detached from the room totally. Molly sat down quietly in a chair and skimmed through a book, her mind not registering any words her eyes glazed over.

There was more danger now, for him and for Molly. Sherlock would be damned if anything were to erase everything he's been working for since he faked his death. It was beginning to overwhelm him even more than before. He was so close, yet so far. Every time he took a step forward, there was nothing else that he could do from that point. It wasn't even him investigating. He was tired of waiting; he wanted to just go and finish this now, but he didn't know where Moran was. He wouldn't risk further opportunity unless his information was precise.

He was becoming tired of this; it wasn't a game anymore as much as both Moriarty and Moran tried to make it that way. It wasn't fun, but it was for them; ruining his life as it continued to end, dragging every day to make sure that he knew it wasn't ending with that day at Bart's. No, Moriarty would have lost the game that way. Of course he had a backup plan.

Molly helped of course, as always, but at this point there was only so much that she could do. He wasn't going to put her in any immediate danger. She mattered too much now; he had lost everything and everyone, currently, and she was the only one left. She put with him at a low he hadn't been at it in a long time; she pulled him up out of that state and helped him recover. He could function now, and for some reason, he could care and feel more so than ever before. It felt raw, but he was in constant apprehension that it would be distracting him, which was overbearing.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes- it had been almost an hour. He had realised halfway through the hour that she was there and noticed her nervous demeanour. He spoke without turning his head to her, continuing to stare up at the ceiling. "You're not reading."

Molly looked up from her book and at him. She let the book fall down into her lap and gave a sigh. "I'm just… worried is all." Well, that wasn't lying. She really was worried; he just didn't know the extent of what.

But as she rested her hand on top of the book, he saw the bruising around her wrist; it was darkening. His eyebrow rose as he looked it at. She knew that he saw it, so she waited, biting down on her lip. She was reprimanding herself in her head, deeply. She was going to fuck this up, he was going to know, and he was going to get hurt.

"It's nothing," she continued.

"If I were the one hurt you would be angry with me for not telling you," he said matter-of-factly. He was starting to catch on to this, learning quickly about whatever it was their relationship currently was. He was right though, Molly would've done the same thing on the other side of the situation. "Which, you also did not tell me about when you got attacked."

She hadn't even mentioned it that far, but he deduced, of course it was enough to figure that out. She was being like him; it wasn't in the same context, but she was being hypocritical, which Molly knew wasn't very fair. But she couldn't necessarily _be_ fair. She was doing it for a reason and she couldn't tell him why. She knew if he were on the other side of this he would understand, but he couldn't be.

Molly took a deep breath before running her hands down her face. She went over and sat down next to him on the sofa. "Sherlock, I-" she began as she exhaled. He sat there and he waited. He watched her trying to find the words and it made him feel less inferior in the one place he did feel it. This was completely new; he never approached anything lightly unless it was boring.

Molly's phone buzzed in her back pocket and she froze completely. She knew it was not her normal phone. It was the one Moran had given her.


	9. Chapter 9

_I wonder what would happen to Sherlock, and to you, if you were to tell him how you got that nice bruise on your wrist._

The text she had read over and over. Molly and Sherlock's conversation hadn't continued after her phone buzzed. She had to be serious, but she didn't want things uncomfortable with Sherlock. She would give him as much as she could without giving anything away.

Molly walked out of the bathroom and curled up next to Sherlock. He was lying there quietly, his eyes closed, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. She brought her hand up so it rested on the side of his neck, the tips of her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He opened his eyes and looked to her, his expression neutral as he remained quiet.

He hadn't been angry at her; he had only observed the situation, trying to figure it out from another perspective. He could see that she felt guilty, for much different reasons than he believed. She looked sad though.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She nudged her nose against his neck. Even if she felt that she was being his comfort, that things would probably change when they returned to London, she was different with him. She felt comfortable and a stronger need for contact.

"You were right, and I'm not being fair." As her face was hidden from him, she closed her eyes, trying to push back tears. She wanted this over; she just wanted to know what she needed to do to help Sherlock, to get Moran away from him.

After a minute she pulled her face away and she sat up. "I hadn't mentioned it because right after that happened, I found you on the bathroom floor. I don't know how I could've thought my bruising more important than regaining your consciousness. And I was just so angry…" she sighed. They had both been through too much- they deserved to go home.

"Some guy tried to mug me. He grabbed me from an alleyway and bashed me up against a wall. He… he had me at knifepoint," her voice broke for a second and Sherlock watched her uneasiness as she explained. "But… it's not- he didn't take anything from me. Someone saw what was happening and they helped me… and then I came home to find you and you know the rest." She knew who that someone was now, but she had to try her best to pretend she didn't.

Sherlock nodded as he had sat up and watched her as she spoke. He didn't know what to say because there wasn't really anything else to say. He felt guilty that he had dragged her into this; that he hadn't been there to protect her. She was so busy trying to protect him that he didn't see it. That she was going through all of this for him and he'd never done a thing to deserve her loyalty. He nudged his nose against her temple, his eyes closed as he tried to comfort her in some way.

He didn't ask about the second part. He recognized that it would've upset her further, but he didn't understand how she had gotten hurt. Sherlock hadn't been away from her for long and they were in the same building. Would he have noticed?

Molly leaned into him now, feeling morose after relaying her story. She hadn't talked about it; honestly, she hadn't even really dealt with it. She felt strange with Sherlock now; he was so different towards her, so gentle. She never thought it would be like this and he was actually doing well at comforting her. She wondered if this was just because he needed her or if his feelings were as strong as she felt they were.

Sherlock placed a kiss on her forehead just before Molly felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

A sob erupted from her throat. "It isn't _fair_." He believed it to be from her story; from her nostalgia remembering a past traumatic event, but her cry was because of Moran. No text from him was ever going to be anything good. She was in apprehension now. She hadn't given anything away; she hadn't done anything Moran asked her not to do.

* * *

Molly hugged her arms around herself as she stared out the window, contemplating. She let out a quiet sigh as she tried to figure out what she was going to do and how she was going to do it.

_Leave tomorrow. Make an excuse that you have to leave, lie, I don't care. Once you have exited the flat I will give you a location. If he can take something away from me, I will most certainly take something away from him._

_Cheers! Looking so forward to seeing you! _

Moran was going to hurt her, and he was probably going to kill her. If she was going to keep Sherlock safe, she had to follow Moran's requests until she had the opportunity to inform Mycroft. If she could keep Moran distracted on her, Mycroft could get Sherlock away somewhere safe. It would put his going home off again, but Moran knew everything; he had the upper hand on Sherlock, and Molly couldn't stand there and let him be defeated. She needed him to be alive, needed him safe in order to be at any sort of peace.

Sherlock had risked his life, and temporarily destroyed it to save his friends. Molly loved him more than she could imagine loving anyone, so she felt she needed to do this.

If she followed through with everything Moran had planned without informing Mycroft, he would kill her, and then he would kill Sherlock. If Sherlock went home, he had the chance to save other people, to put more people to justice than she ever could. And he was a good man, a great one; he deserved his old life back. Molly told herself this over and over to justify the risk she was about to put herself in.

Molly had made sure earlier that day, soon after she had made her decision, to ring her mum and brother. It may have been the last time she got to talk to them.

When she felt Sherlock's eyes set upon her back, she took one last look out the window, exhaling calmly but sombrely. When she turned around to face him she had a smile on her face. This was the last full day she could spend with Sherlock and she wasn't going to spend it crying.

Although Molly let her face show with a smile, her eyes deceived her. As much as she tried, her eyes would not meet the happy persona she tried to give off. Sherlock watched, trying to deduce what was upsetting her, but could not think of what it would be.

They spent the day out doing things, looking at shops. Molly tried to keep herself close by Sherlock, but she needed a distraction. All she could think of was tomorrow, but she didn't want to spend it like that; she didn't want to dwell. She tried her best to push it out and have a good day with Sherlock.

But as the day continued, Molly struggled to try and keep her sadness below the surface. Whenever Sherlock would get distracted by Mycroft's text, he would always look up to see Molly looking off somewhere distant. She looked sad, morose; she had been quieter than usual that day.

Sherlock could only be glad that this would soon be coming to a close. He would never understand why she stuck it through for so long, but his affection for her grew stronger with it. Everyone perceived her to be so weak when she was strong, evidently stronger than him, seeing his past behaviour. Maybe that's why he seemed to allow himself to show his caring for her; she was the most sentimental person he knew, but that was the part that made her strong. It was so contradictory to everything he told himself in that area.

Molly looked down to see that Sherlock's hand had found hers and was holding her tight. Even though she was looking down, Sherlock saw a real smile light up her face. She squeezed his hand tight as she continued along with him, trying to look for something else to keep herself distracted. She didn't know how she was going to get herself to leave.

* * *

When they were in bed that night, Molly knew she was not going to sleep. She didn't want to waste any time sleeping. She cuddled herself up against Sherlock, content as she could be; she would not have asked to be anywhere better.

Molly lost herself in thought for a moment as Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair. As much as justification can calm you, it doesn't have the power to relieve the melancholy. How was she even going to leave tomorrow? Sherlock knows that Molly wouldn't just get tired of him. She needed to present it in a way that wasn't just lies. Sherlock would see through that even if Molly wasn't a terrible liar.

_You will have no choice but to return to London eventually _

When Molly looked up to Sherlock, his eyes were closed and his chest calmly rose and fell. It wasn't until then that she felt panic rising and constricting her chest. She felt more alone that she ever could be. She didn't want him to sleep; he never did, and it was probably selfish of her to not want him to if he needed it. But she couldn't bear laying there on her own all night; she needed him one last time.

She reached her hand up to cup his face and brought her lips to his to give him one chaste kiss. It stirred him; he had been on the edge of consciousness when he felt her against him. He opened his eyes to see Molly's staring into his. She looked frightened, anxious- just terribly afraid.

"Molly, what is the matter?" he finally asked, his eyes were narrowed in concern as he searched her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I should just let you sleep…" she trailed off. He still watched her though, waiting for an answer. She felt weak and she hated that she was about to be needy and whiney to Sherlock. After all, she was the one that was supposed to be helping him- and after tonight she would be.

"I'm homesick… and lonely," she nudged her forehead against his but kept her eyes closed. It wasn't lying when she said that was part of her reason for being sad. Although living with Sherlock felt like home, she would have loved to visit her work, her flat, and her friends for a last time.

Sherlock watched her expression turn sad, showing an unprotected visage. Some of it had been held back, but now that she gave him a reason, she could let it show. He could have refuted her statement of loneliness because he was right there for her, but sleeping put him in a different state than her. There was no one else in Molly's life that would understand loneliness better than Sherlock. He had been for a long time before meeting John, and he felt like that for a while after faking his death. It was only after Molly helped him through the worst part that he realised he wasn't so lonely when with her.

He would stay awake with her then; he slept rarely anyway and another night wouldn't hurt. They laid there quietly for a while and every so often Molly would lean forward and give him small kisses. He recognised her neediness, but was not annoyed as anyone would have expected him to be. He was incredibly homesick, so he found comfort in it too.

He watched her carefully though, her eyes were in a constant state of worry. Molly finally broke the comfortable silence in the room. "Tell me about your favourite cases with John," she asked. She wanted to see his eyes get a little bit brighter. She knew that they would when she saw Sherlock recalling deductions.

Sherlock found it was easier for him to talk about his cases; it was something to think about that reminded him of home that didn't have to do with his fall. Molly listened carefully and she was right; he enjoyed talking about them.

He told her about a few of them and Molly seemed content enough for him to be done. His body was tired and his mind tired of talking, so he lay there with her silently again as she traced her fingers along his arms, along his face, collarbone.

When he fell asleep the second time, she sighed, and the constriction returned to her chest; she didn't wake him this time. She needed time to gather herself, pack up her things, and prepare herself to be convincing. Their conversation from tonight would reinforce it anyway.

When she knew Sherlock was fully asleep she gave herself a few minutes to cry silently before getting out of the bed.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock only fell asleep for an hour before he woke up to an empty bedside. The room looked different somehow, like things were missing. He narrowed his eyes as he got out of bed. Before he even left the room he calculated that everything of Molly's she had put in there was not anymore.

By the time he reached the sitting room to see her bags on the floor and the way she looked, he didn't need to be a detective to figure out that she was clearly leaving somewhere. He waited for her to say something.

She stared at the floor quietly, tense and beginning to tremble. He was standing close to her; she felt encompassed, dizzy. She had to force the words out, but they couldn't sound forced. They needed to sound real.

_Lie_

That's what Moran had told her to do, but she didn't need to. She could take the truth of the situation and only need to lie about how it changed her willingness. He stood there, waiting for her, her face full of distraught and it was making him uneasy.

"Sherlock," she breathed out, tears welled up into her eyes as soon as she looked up to him. His deep blue pools gave her his full attention as he tried to deduce what she would say next.

Tears fell freely as she began to choke out the words. "I love you," she said as she let out a sad chuckle. "But I am… the means to an end. Mycroft asked me to come here so that I could watch over you, retain your sanity until you could go home. I am your comfort, your distraction. I know that when you can go home we will continue our relationship as colleagues, as a pathologist helping a consulting detective. I know you're married to your work and your opinions towards sentiment." A hard sob erupted from her throat as she let those words leave her lips. "And I understand, and that is okay."

Sherlock was frozen still, confused. He was so wrapped up in everything that had happened since they had got there. The progression of his relationship with Molly, and he was getting so close to Moran he could taste it. It hadn't crossed his mind about what would happen when he went home in terms of Molly because he wasn't even sure if he could go home. But as those words fell out of her mouth, covered by her sad demeanour that made his heart constrict, he realised that he did not want everything to be exactly as it was. That was not possible; he didn't want that and he refused to hurt Molly that way. He knew he was still going to want her when they went home. _When._ She had finally made him believe that there was hope, and he clung onto that.

Seconds after her sentenced trailed off he began to refute it. "Molly, that's not-"

But she shook her head as she took a step back from him. "And that is why I'm going home."

She thought she was going to double over. She tried her best to hold in her sobs. Molly was incapable of looking into his eyes anymore, or at his face. She needed to look anywhere but in his direction; she was crumbling. She tried to remember why she was doing this but it didn't make her any more composed.

"We've been here for months, and we've both been through so much. I feel as though I've gotten through to you on a level that I couldn't before, and I'm glad that I could help you; I've always been happy to help… But I can't do this anymore. I have a life on hold at home." She paused, taking in a deep breath as her sobs were harder. "I have a flat and I have a job that I love. Those are things that I've worked hard for and I want them back. And if I am at all capable of normalcy with you when you come home, I need to start getting over my silly feelings now."

Sherlock kept his eyes narrowed but he was losing his composure as well. He took a step towards Molly, closing the distance she had put between them before confessing to her. "I don't want that. Not now, not when I go home." He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, her head lifting a little so their eyes met again.

"I have to." He wouldn't lie to her, but she couldn't let herself believe those words. She was doing this for him; she was doing this to protect him.

"Molly, I need you." he said, strain evident in his voice; he was trembling. Sherlock Holmes, not-so sociopath, really did need her. She was not the means to an end; it was not because she was the piece of home that he retained. It was because it was Molly, because he cared for Molly, maybe even loved her. He was all that she had in this, and he truly needed her. He let his thumb graze under her eye and wipe a tear away. It was only then that he noticed how tired she looked.

She brought her hand up on top of his resting on her cheek; she closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled softly. "Sherlock Holmes," she said as she stared into his eyes, another sad chuckle escaping her lips. "You are the most brilliant man that I've ever known. You don't need me."

He didn't have a choice; he could not force her to stay. Sherlock had mentioned this before; eventually she would have to return to London without him. He didn't want her to go, but she was entitled to her own life. She had let herself get dragged down into his muddled mess, and it was clear that she had had enough. He could fix this when he went back to London; he would fix this. At least she would be out of harm's way, and he could try and protect her now.

Molly got up on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. This could be the last time she saw him and she was going to have to pry herself away from him. As she pulled her head away, she felt her chin cupped and his lips found hers. He pulled her close to him as they kissed each other frantically, desperately. Molly more so than him, feeling that it was something more final, ending. It was perfect in her eyes and she couldn't ask for anything more.

Tears streamed quickly down Molly's cheeks as one hand was wrapped around her waist, pulling her close to him. A cry erupted from her throat in-between kisses, not wanting to let any of this go. Sherlock was gentle but desperate for her touch, his lips drawing her in, in his own subtle way trying to convince her to stay.

As she pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers for a moment. Molly could not let it last though. "I love you," she whispered again. She turned around and walked out the door; she couldn't bear to look back at him. If she had, she would have ran back to him, told him everything. It would have completely compromised his safety. And so she left him there in the middle of the flat.

Molly continuously brought her hands up to wipe the tears falling down her cheeks. She walked and walked until she was blocks away from the flat, in hopes that she would be far from Sherlock.

She quickly took out her phone and scrolled over the name of the one person who could keep Sherlock completely safe. She pressed her back to the wall of the building for a minute, trying to calm herself. She took a deep breath as she pressed the phone up to her ear.

Mycroft answered, but he did not recognize the number on the phone, and so he said nothing until she spoke.

"Mycroft," she began, "you need to get Sherlock out of here. Far away from France, far away from Moran. Please."

"_Dr Hooper?"_

"I'm going home; I'm not with him. It's not safe for him."

Mycroft knew that Molly would not just leave Sherlock here unless everything was safe, she wouldn't abandon him. He had surveillance on her since Sherlock and Molly first met at Bart's. She accepted without hesitation to help him, all intentions of seeing this through.

And her biggest mistake was that she had used the wrong phone to call Mycroft. That was her red flag. She had always been instructed to use only her mobile when calling him unless there was trouble. She was not asking for the help, she was willing to do this for Sherlock, but she had slipped. The phones looked the same. Molly hadn't even noticed that she used the wrong phone, and so she continued on with Moran's plan.

Sherlock paced back and forth through the sitting room, trying to figure out how to get to Moran. Molly had only left a few hours ago but he tried to push it far out of his head. If she was going to be safe then he needed to focus completely on Moran. He needed to go home; he was alone now, and he hadn't truly been alone since before he had met John.

He was growing frustrated; he needed someone to talk at. His mind palace was disorganized, he couldn't think straight. His mind kept going back to Molly, secretly wanting her back here. Something hadn't felt right when she left, and it haunted his thoughts since the second she had walked out of the flat.

But before he knew it, the door of his flat was opening. First Mycroft was in view, looking worried as he had a few other men with him to bring in some sort of equipment. But then Sherlock looked up to see a face that he had not seen in a long time.

John stood in the doorway and let out a hard sigh of relief, everything finally cementing into his brain. Mycroft had informed him before he brought him to France, he explained what was going on and so for the first time Sherlock was the one that didn't know what was going on and everyone else did.

"John-" Sherlock started, not sure what to say.

John pointed at him, recomposing himself quickly. "We'll talk about that later," he said as he walked over to Mycroft. Only because being short of time John wasn't going to have the conversation with him yet. He was much more relieved than he let shine through about seeing Sherlock, it was real, concrete.

It took a second, but Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "You're going to need help, Sherlock, and I figured John would be the best one to do that."

Sherlock only nodded, he already knew what Mycroft was going to say, he already knew it would be about Molly, and he felt like an idiot for not realising it before. He knew that he shouldn't have let her leave. He listened carefully as Mycroft explained the situation.

Sherlock was pacing angrily. "How long ago was this?"

"A few hours ago."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Sherlock growled through his teeth, glaring daggers at Mycroft. It must have been just after she left.

"You would have gotten yourself killed, and then Dr Hooper. You need help with this," Mycroft said as he looked to John. "You really think you could take on Moran and his men by yourself?"

Sherlock huffed, taking longer strides now as he tried to clear his head, waiting for Mycroft to continue because obviously he knew more than Sherlock did.

"Get your mobile. You need to call her so we can track her. I couldn't track the other phone given to her. It was blocked. She needs to be called on her own mobile."


	11. Chapter 11

Molly's crying had subsided a while ago, and in her mind she thought she was starting to accept that whatever happened to her, happened to her. She hoped to god that Mycroft had actually listened and gotten Sherlock out of there. She didn't want all of this to be for nothing, she wanted him safe.

The cab had dropped her off a few blocks away as per her request. She walked along the sidewalk, her feet feeling heavy as they carried her. She felt a buzzing in her pocket as she pulled out the phone, her heart pounding out of her chest as she read Sherlock's name across the screen.

She almost started hyperventilating. She wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice again, and if she didn't answer, then he would know something was wrong. She took in a breath as she answered it. "Hello?"

"Molly," Sherlock breathed a relieved sigh. On the other side of the phone, John saw Sherlock's entire body relax as she seemed okay for now, was no doubt alive. "Molly, where are you?"

"I'm going home, Sherlock; I told you," she said, her voice shaking.

"Molly, I'm safe, Mycroft is here, but I _know._"

She stopped in her tracks. "What?"

"Stay on the phone with me, I need to track your-"

"Sherlock, I can't, they see me… I'm- I'm sorry. Get out of there. Please, if you do anything, disappear, get away." And with that the line went dead. Sherlock looked to Mycroft who shook his head. They weren't on the phone long enough, they couldn't track the location. John watched Sherlock's face turn pale; he saw the way that he had looked relieved before; he knew there was something different.

Molly didn't bother to look down at her phone as she saw people in the far off distance. As she went to put her phone back into her pocket, her nervous fingers scrolled over the redial button. She was too anxious now to even notice that her phone was redialling Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock clutched the phone his hand until his knuckles were white. After Mycroft had said it wasn't enough time, Sherlock forgot that anyone else was in the room; he didn't care. That full minute of tension felt like hours for everyone, but Sherlock jerked when he realised his phone was vibrating again. He answered instantly. "Molly."

But he only heard the sound of ruffling and knew immediately that her phone was in her pocket. He listened, kept the line alive as he waited for the tracking to complete.

* * *

Sherlock and John sat in the back of Mycroft's car, going faster than it should have been. The phone could not be peeled away from Sherlock's ear as he listened.

They had grabbed her forcefully, wrenched her along and down the corridor. Molly was finding it difficult to breathe, wondering where that sense of 'not caring what happened to her anymore' had gone.

When she was brought to Moran, his fun could begin. Sherlock heard a small gasp as she was shoved. "Oh come on, Miss Hooper! Take off your coat, stay a while," he purred, anger hinted in his voice. It was ripped off of her and she was shoved into a chair, her hands tied behind her.

Before Moran went to put the coat down, he stopped. He looked to it curiously as Molly watched, unsure. His hand dug into the pocket, taking out both of the phones, his expression changing immediately upon looking at the second one.

There was a temporarily silence that seemed to last ages as Sherlock gripped the phone. It was loud enough that John could hear from next to Sherlock. The first new noise that they heard was a crack as Molly was slapped across the face, a small whimper of pain escaping her lips. She had bit down on her cheek and all that she could taste was the blood in her mouth, the cut on her lip starting to bleed as well.

Sherlock jerked when he heard the noise. "Bitch!" Moran yelled. "Weak Molly Hooper can't follow a single instruction correctly."

Molly swallowed the blood pooling her mouth, looking to Moran. "I did… I did what you asked. Just… leave him alone," she begged.

"And you really think that he'll listen to you?" He turned the phone around so that the screen faced Molly. A look of shock appeared across her face as she winced, a tear rolling down her cheek as she regretted what she saw. "I'm sure he's on his way here right now. Hello, Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock's whole body froze as he listened. "Oh," Moran said mock-frowning. "A bit shy today, are we? Maybe you should've just come out and play in the first place."

"Hurry up!" Moran overheard as Sherlock growled through his teeth to the driver of their vehicle.

"Oh, dear, dear Sherlock, you'd like to hear what's going on from the other line, do you? Well, guests are welcome to listen. I know you must be rusty on your deduction skills, but maybe some sound can help you figure out what's happening." He said this as Sherlock could practically hear the curves of his lips forming a smirk. Moran handed the phone to one of his men to hold.

He walked over to Molly, his hand gripping the back of her pony tail hard, an uncontrollable groan escaping from her lips as she winced again. "What's that; follicle stimulation Mr Holmes."

Sherlock's face was pale, his body stone stuck as he listened to Molly get thrashed around, beaten up; she was a mess, biting down on her busted lip to try and hold back cries and groans from the slaps, the punches. Her body started to ache without being touched, and she was becoming dizzy as blood dripped down from her head.

He heard the chair fall the ground as she was pushed over, the blow to the head too hard for the chair not to fall. Molly curled her legs up to her chest as far as she could as she lay on the ground, a pained cry coming from her throat. It was quiet for a moment before Sherlock finally heard her voice again.

"Sherlock," Molly began, her voice hoarse as Sherlock perked up on the other line, giving more attention if that was even possible. He could hear how weak she sounded, defeated. She had given herself up to them willingly, for his sake. Moran was determined he was going to take even more from her. "Hang up. _Please_," she pleaded. "Sherlock, please don't come." But before he could reply to her, there was another noise that sounded like someone kicked her as she lay on the floor. A loud cough erupted from Molly's lungs as she tried to find her breath. It had caught when she was kicked; he heard her as she lay there, panting. Her ribs cracked as it became a struggle to breathe without hurting. Before Sherlock had a chance to say anything or to hear anything else happening, the line went dead from her end.

Sherlock lowered his phone into his lap, forgetting everyone and everything around him except for the car. He yelled for it to hurry up again. An hour he sat on the phone listening to Molly's cries of pain. Every single one of them, every mark on her was his fault. He had dragged her into this; he had made her waste her life trying to save a dead man, and if they didn't get there soon, she would be dead.

John swore her saw moisture in Sherlock's eyes before his expression turned back to pure anger. His hands shook in his lap. John wanted to say something to Sherlock, but it wouldn't have done anything. John sat beside him in his own anxiety for Molly, almost to her location.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock flung himself out of the car and John along with him barely before the car had even stopped. Sherlock had sat there with time to ruminate, to make him even more enraged that he had been. No one was going to stop him from killing Moran, and if Molly was dead, Moran should hope that Sherlock was being kind killing him quickly.

John knew Sherlock would stop at nothing. After seeing the incident when Mrs Hudson was hurt, he knew how Sherlock reacted. But John saw something in Sherlock's eyes that was more intense than it ever had been for anyone before.

The door to the warehouse had been unlocked. Of course Moran knew that they were coming, so the door opened as an invitation to them; a challenge. Sherlock went in, not careful as he looked around, only determined and quick.

As two guards, rounded the corner, Sherlock did not even give them a chance. The two of them were shot, dead with one hit as their bodies hit the ground. Sherlock walked over their corpses without a second thought. If they were helping Moran to hurt Molly, they did not deserve a chance. All Sherlock could see as he strode along the halls was red.

When Sherlock and John reached the large room that Molly was in, Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, John was signalling him to wait. Moran knew, so something would be planned, and walking into the room and up to Molly blindsided would get him killed.

They pressed themselves against the piles of boxes, hidden from most of the room. Sherlock kept his eye on Molly. He heard the occasional sob from her throat as she tried to stop herself from crying, but the pain was too much to bear.

Sherlock gave himself a second to think before turning back to John. "Go and get the paramedics." He demanded. He knew Moran wanted him alone, and if that was going to end this sooner than he would do it.

John wasn't stupid; he knew that Sherlock was going to go after him the second he left. "Sherlock-"

"Go," he hissed. "Molly is hurt," he said sternly, coldly; anything to fight away sadness. The only emotion he could handle right now was rage. John was compliant and left Sherlock to deal with the mess.

The second John disappeared; Sherlock came out from behind the boxes, looking around sceptically. He walked towards Molly as he kept his eyes about the room, but they fluttered back to Molly every few seconds. When he reached her and Moran had still not come out, he broke the binds on Molly's hands as she lay broken on the ground. He placed a finger gently under her chin.

When Molly's eyes met his, all Sherlock could see was the bruises and cuts covering her exposed skin. Her eyes were tired, wet, she was out of it. There was a stream of blood down the side of her head, making her dizzy from loss of blood. She could see the pained expression in his eyes as he looked to her.

"Finally!" someone exclaimed as he came nearer towards them. At the first inflection of Moran's voice, Sherlock's gun was pointed towards him. Moran held his arms up and gave a smile to Sherlock. "Unarmed."

Sherlock glared at him, his eyes never moving from him as Sherlock placed the gun down on the ground and walked towards Moran. "So how'd I do? The guy hitting on Molly… oh, I could just see the jealousy _seething _from you as much as you thought you were pretending."

Sherlock said nothing but continued to glare at the man, looking for an opportunity to attack him. "Now I haven't decided, Mr Holmes, if it would be more interesting to kill you first and make Miss Hooper watch… oh no! I think it would be much more fun to watch you squirm as I killed our lovely Molly."

Sherlock's teeth gritted behind his lips. "What do you want? You knew where I was all along. Get it over with already." He had meant with him, he wouldn't let any more harm come to Molly; she did not deserve any of this.

"No, but you see, I want you to _beg_ for your life," Moran said, as he reached his hand behind him. He began to pull the gun tucked inside back of his trousers. Before he could even pull it out fully, Moran heard a loud bang, two shots fired, followed by him gripping his side.

Sherlock had flinched at the unexpected noise, watching as Moran fell to the ground. The first bullet had hit his leg, but the second, the second was just close enough to hit a major artery.

Sherlock looked over to Molly as the gun was loose in her hand. She was still lying on the ground, the top part of her body held up by her elbows as the gun was loose in her hand. It hurt her to even move that much, but she had done it. Molly was not in expert in guns, but she was in anatomy. She had known from examining bodies where hitting them would be fatal. She seemed lost as she let the gun fall out of her hands.

Sherlock watched for only a second longer as blood spurted out of the side of Moran's mouth; the internal bleeding imminent and terminal.

He ran over to Molly, watching as she was losing consciousness. The loss of blood still made her dizzy, but now it was blurring her vision. He tried to pick her up, but she screamed out in pain. Sherlock finally saw the reality of what he heard on the phone and put her back down. One of her hands clutched the lapel of his jacket, her face pressed against his chest. While he heard John and the paramedics running through the halls, trying to get to them, he held Molly against him, not knowing what else to do.

"I told you-" Molly began in a whisper, almost inaudible for Sherlock to hear.

"Shh…" Sherlock whispered as he held her closer to his chest, his cheek resting on the top of her head.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock held her close before they lifted her onto the stretcher. Molly had fallen unconscious in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock walked along with the paramedics as John followed behind him. John was shocked to see Sherlock actually listening to the paramedics rather than interrupting them. When Sherlock heard them confirm that Molly would be okay, an inaudible sigh escaped his lips.

They took her in the ambulance and headed towards the hospital. There had not been enough room for anyone else, so they were back in Mycroft's car on the way behind them.

Sherlock was quiet at first as they rode at a much normal pace compared to before. He felt immense guilt for Molly, and he would never forgive himself for how much she was hurt because of him. But he remembered John sitting on the other side of the car, and what John had been through. He figured John would have punched him, but he let it pass over to help him get Molly.

"I had no choice but to do what I did last year," Sherlock stated, justifying his actions. John looked away from his window to see Sherlock staring out of his. His eyes looked heavy, and his body tired, emotionally drained from the evening's events. But after a minute Sherlock turned towards John. "But I am sorry, truly. It was only to protect all of you."

John had wanted, at first, when Mycroft told him, to punch him in the face, but he couldn't help but feel bad for Sherlock. It looked as though Sherlock had suffered just as bad as everyone else grieving over him, if not worse. Seeing the way he reacted with Molly was an emotional display John never thought he'd see from Sherlock. John only nodded, accepting Sherlock's apology.

As the car kept going, John had started to feel as if they were back to normal already. They had both missed each other, but the atmosphere felt familiar, better now that Sherlock was truly not dead anymore. After a long silence he turned to Sherlock again. "I'm getting married soon."

"I know," Sherlock said without removing his eyes from the window.

"How?" John asked. He had only proposed to Mary the other day, no one had known besides Mary's friends.

Sherlock turned his head now and gave John the look that he always did, wondering why John really needed to ask and they both smiled. It was in all ways back to normal between the two of them now.

But as they pulled up to the hospital, Sherlock's face fell back to his anxious, guilty demeanour he had held.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was spending all of his time at the hospital. The first day she had spent in a hospital in France. But with a bit of convincing and mostly Mycroft's help, she was transported to Bart's where she could be taken care of by people she knew.

Sherlock may have spent a lot of time in the hospital, but it had been a few days and he hadn't been in to see her. Everyone else had; Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, her mum had come up, and frequently John. Of course, Sherlock was sending John into her room to check on her. A lot of Sherlock's time was spent outside her room.

He still felt guilty and blamed himself for what had happened to her. She had done so much and almost died because of him. The one person who helped him more than anyone else had come the closest to dying, and it was right under his nose. He was the world's only consulting detective, he noticed everything; but somehow he hadn't seen that coming. He was angry at himself for getting lost, letting his skills not do their job.

"How're you feeling?" John asked.

"Same as when you asked me an hour ago," Molly said bitterly, sighing as she straightened out her blanket over her lap. She watched out the door that was cracked open and could see a coat sweeping by every once in a while; he was pacing outside of her room. She was frustrated; she didn't understand why he couldn't come in and see her, he was obviously there. She didn't know that he spent most of the time in the hospital, or rather, hadn't figured it out yet. She assumed that he just sent John to come do it because he didn't feel like seeing her. She had told him she was leaving, maybe that was why. Maybe he believed her words still and felt abandoned, maybe it was her fault.

She finally looked up to John who had ignored her slight irritation and was giving her a sympathetic smile when she realised what had just come out of her mouth. She sighed again, looking down. "I'm… sorry, John," she said, looking back down to her blanket. "That was rude of me, sorry."

"He pisses me off, too," John replied with an amused small smile. "I understand."

"I just don't really get why he's here if he isn't going to actually come in…" she trailed off, but then something clicked and she felt stupid. "Oh… is he here for a case then?"

John let out a sigh. "Molly, no, of course not; he won't take any cases. Lestrade offered him already but he refused."

"What? Why? This is everything that he wanted, and he has it now… he's such…" Molly sighed heavily in frustration. "He's a miserable sod." This was everything she had risked herself for; so that he could come back to this, have his normal life and he wasn't pursuing?

John realised how much she misunderstood what he was saying, and how she definitely did not comprehend her importance to him. Maybe he would agree with her if this was before Molly did so much for him, but Sherlock had filled him in- well, vaguely. Whatever 'filling in' was in Sherlock's eyes. But he had told John enough for him to understand. "Molly, he won't do it because he spends his time outside that door," he said, turning his body slightly and pointing to the door of her room. "He's waiting for you to get better and get home safely. He's… worried, which is new to him. A lot of what's been going on is new for Sherlock…" he said, still trying to grasp this concept of him being so close with Molly.

Molly sat back in her elevated bed, relaxing a bit now; she winced a bit at the feeling of her ribs still sensitive to moving around. A small o shape formed her lips as she thought, feeling ignorant now. But then a small smile played on her mouth as she kept her eyes down. "Not a git then, I suppose."

"No, he is," John replied, smiling to Molly again before leaving the room.

She caught sight of Sherlock as John was closing the door, but he pretended not to make eye contact with her. He was impatiently waiting to see how Molly was, yet unwilling to go in and see for himself. She sighed, wishing that he would come in. Even if it was odd after all of this, to work with him after being so close to him, she just wanted to see him.

On the other side of the door Sherlock felt awful, tired. He still hadn't slept in a while and it was wearing him down. His body wouldn't let him. Logically, he knew Molly was fine, and it was irrational that he was acting this way. But it was the only way to hide the fear and the shame of what he put her through.

* * *

The next day, John came out of Molly's room again to find a familiarly anxious Sherlock. All John did was put his hands up. "Her meds are wearing off and she's… well- she's cranky, a bit angry. She says if you want to know how she is then you can ask her yourself.

Sherlock sighed, knowing he was finally going to give in. He opened the door that John had just closed and walked into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Molly sighed as she heard the door close. "John, I know-" she began, but then she looked up and met his tired, sad eyes. Sherlock had been expecting more of a wrath from Molly, but her annoyance seemed to dissipate. "Oh…" she smiled but it did not meet her eyes, "hello." She could feel the pain from her meds wearing off and beginning to creep up, but she suppressed it. If she called anyone in, Sherlock would probably leave.

Sherlock walked up a bit closer towards her bed; he looked nervous, which was odd for him. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm okay," she said, a small smile on her face as she realised he was listening to what John had told him. Sherlock examined her arms, her neck, collarbone, everything visible still had cuts and bruises and an awful feeling filled his chest as he made his own decision about her state. "Stop," she said shyly and it caught his attention, making him look at _her_, not her battle wounds. "I know that face, you're deducing," she said.

Sherlock let out a sigh. "Molly, I am sorry."

"I chose to go all on my own, Sherlock," she replied without even a second thought.

"I mean for everything, Molly, for all of it. If I hadn't asked you to help-"

"You would be dead," she said bluntly as she winced; the pain was becoming increasingly worse, but the thought of Sherlock dead also created the reaction on her face. Her breath caught in her throat now as she wrapped an arm around her stomach to brace herself. Her ribs were killing her.

But just then a nurse came in to give her the medication and Molly looked up confused. She hadn't called for anyone, and it was still a bit early before they came in to give her regular doses; it had been wearing off quicker. It was given to her, and she felt she could relax now that she knew that she would soon feel better.

The nurse turned to Sherlock before exiting the room; he had seated himself in the chair next to her to move out of the way. "Thank you, Mr Holmes; this one's a bit stubborn and doesn't like to tell us when she needs her medication." Sherlock nodded politely before she left the room and then his eyes trailed back to her, forgetting the nurse was there anymore. Molly could only smile at the fact that he had done that for her, but she then reverted back to their conversation when the nurse was gone.

"I would do all of it again, Sherlock."

He was closer to her now as he spoke. "That does not mean you deserved any of this, Molly. Every mark, every… bruise," he traced his hand along an almost healed cut on her jaw before dropping his hand back into his lap. "It's because of me. Because I put you in a position you never should have been in."

Molly brought up a hand to her cheek as she saw the red rims around his eyes, the exhausted look on his face. But then she saw something new, moisture; he really did blame himself for everything that happened to her. She gently wiped the single tear that fell down his cheek with her thumb. Molly found that there was moisture in her own eyes, empathetic to the man she had seen so broken before, but had never shed a tear until now. "Shh… it's- Sherlock, it's okay."

Sherlock moved towards her to try and get her to stop moving around in her bed but she ignored him, disregarding the slight pain. She was at the other side of her bed as she looked back up at him. "Come here," she said softly, and very willingly he complied.

As much as Molly wanted to curl up against him, it would have hurt her too much. She lay on her back as Sherlock lay next to her further down on the bed to rest his head on her shoulder. He traced his fingers along her collarbone as he was against her. Molly brought her arm up and ran her fingers through his curls before kissing the top of his head, burying her nose within his hair.

She rested her cheek on top of his head and realised that he was already asleep. She sighed contentedly as she nodded off herself.

It was not long after they had fallen asleep that John opened the door to check on them. He wouldn't have cared, but he was waiting for Sherlock so that they could go home.

But when he peeked his head in he could only let out a small laugh as he saw Sherlock curled against Molly's tiny form. They both looked much more peaceful than they had in the past few days. John knew that Sherlock had been exhausted, and so had Molly. He smiled before shutting the door silently.


	14. Chapter 14

After a week, things started to get a lot calmer. Molly was finally able to go home from the hospital; her ribs were still healing, but she felt much better than originally. It was a bit slow moving around, but she was eager to go back to work. She'd be away for so long. She didn't understand how Mycroft convinced Bart's to hire a temp for so long and hold her job. She was grateful for it, no doubt, but Mycroft also felt that it was more than owed to her for what she had done.

While Molly settled back into her flat and prepared to go back to work, Sherlock had taken his first case since his return. Molly had convinced him early in the week that she was fine. She could see the brightness in his eyes when Lestrade offered him a case that he rated as a nine.

Of course, John had followed, itching just as bad to get back into their routine. It would be changed though as he was with Mary. Mary saw how happy he was to have Sherlock back and shooed him away. Things would be a bit different once things settled down on that side. John wouldn't be able to run off all of the time as he still wanted to spend time with Mary, but it would work out.

Molly had convinced herself that when Sherlock came home things would return to normal, just as they were before she had to help him fake his death. She knew that this would happen and had been preparing herself for it since they came home.

On her first day back to work, her brother called her while she was taking her break, so she put him on speakerphone while she took care of the paperwork from her first autopsy back.

"Molly?" her brother asked.

"Hmm?" she replied, not exactly giving him her full attention.

"Are you doing paperwork on your break?"

Molly's eyes flickered from the paper to her phone, almost as if she was looking at her brother. "Well, seeing as how I've been on a very long holiday from work, I don't think I really need a break. I'm glad to be back and I want to _work_."

"It wasn't exactly a holiday though, Mols." No, it definitely wasn't. Of all people, Molly knew that. She wouldn't be taking time off of work any time soon. She was determined she was going to pick up more hours and get back into the swing of things, but Mike Stamford knew her state. He knew she still wasn't feeling one hundred percent yet, and so he made sure that she was leaving close to normal time. She was starting to get tired of the nagging though.

She sighed. "I know, Matt, but-"

"Do you need me to tell mum?"

Molly groaned loudly. "Please don't. She won't stop calling me. I understand she's concerned but I'd like to just get back to normal, focus on other things."

She hadn't told anyone what had happened in France besides her brother; what had gone on. Her mum would have gone nuts and visited her with intentions of killing Sherlock, and that was the last thing she wanted. Her brother picked up on her mood quickly enough though; he always knew her like a book and figured out when something was off with her.

"You're trying to distract yourself," he said.

"No- I'm just…" she sighed, letting her sentence hang in the air unfinished.

"Is he just tossing you out the door like he did before then?" Matt said, his voice rising as anger started to hint in his tone. "After everything you've done for him?"

"No, it's fine," she sighed again, closing her eyes in frustration as she tried to explain. "Sherlock loves his work, that's all," she said, a smile hinting on her lips. "This is what I helped him for, so that he could come back and go back to consulting." She set her pen down as she nervously flicked the bottom corner of her papers. "I never expected anything to be how I wanted when he came back."

"He always hurts you," he said bitterly.

"Matt- it's just that… him and I, we've both been through enough. He's happy to be home, ecstatic. Well, he's not in London right now, not until him and John are done with a case. He doesn't need any more emotional turmoil in his life." Her breath caught in her throat, a lump rising as she pushed it back down. "I'm not going to make a big deal about this, okay?" she tried to be stern.

She wasn't going to worry about this; she would try to push it out of her head to make it normal for Sherlock. So that he didn't have to worry and she didn't make herself a burden. Molly had done what he asked of her and now he wouldn't need her anymore unless it was for a case, and she would try to get used to it.

Matt huffed, finally giving up. "Just promise me you'll try and think of yourself sometimes, too?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "I'll try. I've got to go though, my break is over."

"Love you, sis."

"Love you too," she said softly, not so annoyed with her brother now as she hung up the phone. Molly was never one to leave things on a bad note if she could help it.

* * *

Sherlock and John sat in the cab on their way to Bart's; they had just gotten home, but Sherlock needed to look at one thing before he could make the final decision about the case.

It had been a good case. Sherlock loved that he could finally make new deductions, solve new things as he did before. It was even better now that Moriarty and Moran were gone, no longer to be worried about. The people he cared for were safe, and things could go on normally; almost the same as before, but with a few minor changes.

Sherlock easily could have just gone home to use his own microscope to solve the case, but he wanted to go to the morgue. He had lived with Molly for over a year now, and they had almost been gone a week. This was the longest he had been away from her.

He looked over to see John smirking as he tapped his foot. It was only a matter of time before John brought up the conversation that he wanted to. John wasn't an idiot; he knew why they were going to Bart's and not home; he found amusement in it, but Sherlock didn't. Sherlock groaned internally, glaring at John before John turned away from the window.

"So, you're-" John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"John, please," Sherlock said sternly, almost a pleading in his voice.

"You're in a relationship then? A proper one?" he continued anyway.

"Is that so difficult to believe?" Sherlock asked, returning his gaze to the window. He could pretend all he wanted that he wasn't excited to see Molly, but John was just as excited to see Mary. John knew what it was like.

"Yes, actually," John said, not letting his mood about being home or Sherlock's situation falter. "She's your… girlfriend?"

Sherlock groaned as John let out a quiet chuckle, very pleased. "Yes," he finally answered.

"And you're her… boyfriend?" he said, dragging out the last word. John had missed this, the work, the friendship, everything; he loved when he had the upper hand on Sherlock though.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He loathed the word. "Those terms usually do go hand in hand," Sherlock said as he turned toward the window, turning his phone around in one hand.

"You don't have to pretend that you're not excited to see her, you know," John, said before turning back to his own window, letting silence fill the cab.

When Sherlock knew John wasn't looking, he let his lips flicker into a smirk for a fraction of a second before it fell back into a flat line. He didn't have to pretend, but he also didn't need to give John the satisfaction.


	15. Chapter 15

_Coming to Bart's. –SH_

Molly stared down for a moment at her phone, letting the screen go dark as she felt a flutter in her chest. She was nervous to see him; she was going to act normal, she was going to try not to be sad. She could do this, another thing, for him. She promised this to him before when she told him she was leaving France to go to Moran, so wouldn't he be expecting it?

She did miss him though. This was the longest they had been apart since last year. Molly had become so close with him since then and it would be strange to have to be distant from him again. She sighed as she looked back down to her paperwork, not exactly able to focus.

Molly pretended to be busy with her work when the two walked through the door. She took in a deep breath before looking up, a smile on her face. "Hey guys."

"Hey Molly," John smiled at her while Sherlock walked over to his familiar space he had been away from for so long. He sat down at his favourite microscope and put a slide under and began to examine it.

Molly tried to keep her eyes fixed on her work, but there was anxiety rising in her chest. It also didn't help that she realised that John kept looking between the two, his eyes squinting. He was trying to picture the two of them together since he figured he wouldn't get to actually see it for a while. Well, besides him sleeping on her at the hospital.

When she looked up and met John's eyes he gave her a look like he knew something, which confused Molly. Because whatever he knew, she certainly didn't.

"It's the sister. Call Lestrade," Sherlock said as he stood up, walking over to the coat rack to pick up his coat.

Molly felt her heart sink. She knew it was going to be different, but she hoped that he would at least talk to her. She felt silly for feeling sad that she was about to be ignored, but her heart paused when he hesitated at the door.

When he threw his coat on, John was at the doors, putting his phone to his ear. Sherlock's back was to Molly but she heard him tell John "I'll be out in a minute."

John gave a smile to Molly before nodding his head at Sherlock. He was curious to see the interaction between them, but he was in the middle of telling Lestrade who to arrest, so he walked out.

Sherlock had noticed the second he came in the door that Molly was nervous, but he wasn't sure why. He walked over to her and met her lips, wrapping an arm around her waist. She responded instinctively, kissing him back, pressing herself closer up against him.

But the second the kiss ended she looked up at him curiously. "I… I didn't think…" she said, staring wide eyed at him, a small blush in her cheeks. She looked confused, but a smile also lit up her face that she couldn't suppress; she didn't really want to.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he waited for her to explain. "What I said," she began, sighing. "When I left that day in France… I thought that's what you wanted."

"And I told you that it was not what I wanted," he said seriously, but he had on a smile that mirrored hers. "I do not want things to go back to before with you only being my pathologist."

Molly sighed in relief, a small smile on her face as she heard him call her _his_ pathologist. She rested her head on his chest, twisting one of the top buttons of his shirt. His hand pressed against the small of her back as he felt her relax against him.

"I missed you," Molly said quietly, popping open the top button of his shirt and redoing it again. When he kissed the top of her head, he didn't have to say that he did too because she knew what it meant.

It felt odd for Sherlock to be like this with Molly. It wasn't the same as before. When they were in France, he was broken, lost, but now he was home. It could be relaxed, he didn't have to worry about the danger anyone was in; he could get some normalcy back in his life. But he had grown attached to Molly, and he didn't like living away from her.

Another minor change was that Sherlock was currently living by himself in 221B. John had moved to Mary's, but had still rented out the flat; he didn't have to say why. All of Sherlock's stuff remained there throughout, but now Sherlock lived in it on his own.

"You should move to Baker Street," Sherlock said abruptly and Molly froze in her position against him.

"Sorry?" she said, pulling away to look up at him, unsure that she had heard him correctly.

"We are both living in separate flats by ourselves, and there is more than enough room for two people in them. Plus, we have been living together for the past year, and I… like that arrangement…"

Molly missed living away from Sherlock more than anything, but she had never considered that to be an option. She'd never considered that he would still want her when they were back in London either, but she had certainly overlooked that part.

She could do nothing but smile, realising that she was getting much more than she wished for. Sherlock's back was pushed against the counter as Molly stood on her tip toes, finding his mouth. She pressed her hips against his as she gripped the lapels of his shirt, holding her to him. He could only assume that this was her accepting the offer.

When they broke away from the kiss, Molly seemed to be thinking as she bit down on her lip. She kept looking across the lab. He watched her curiously as she grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind her.

"Molly… what-" but his sentence was cut off as she opened the door to the supply closet, pulling him in and closing the door behind her. When Sherlock watched her close the door, he was still unsure of what she was doing, not sure why she had brought him in here.

It became pretty clear when she shoved him against the door, kissing him harder than before as she entangled her hands into his curls, tugging slightly. She slid her tongue along his bottom lip and he groaned as he opened his mouth, granting her access as his hands moved to grip her waist, pulling her closer to him.

On the other side of the door, John's mouth was agape as he stared at the door. He had come into the room to ask Sherlock if he was ready to go, only to see Molly and him escaping behind the door, followed by a loud bang against it. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on. When he managed to pick his jaw up off the floor, he left in a hurry to go see Mary.

Molly ground her hips into his as she let out a breathy whimper. He nibbled down on her bottom lip as he brought one hand down to graze the tips of his fingers down her spine, making her shiver. She was frantic for him now; she never realised that she was going to have him when he came back, and now she _wanted_ him.

She undid the first few top buttons of his shirt before kissing down the column of his throat, one hand drifting down along the front of his body, stopping when she reached his trousers to undo his zip. He watched as she lowered herself down onto her knees, releasing him from his trousers and his eyes went wide.

When she looked up at him, she could see his eyes burning as she took him in her hand. He did not tear his eyes away as she took him into her mouth, letting his whole length sink down into her throat, pursing her lips a bit tighter as he let out a hard, panted breath.

As much as he tried not to, his hips bucked on their own accord, pushing himself further into her mouth. His body wanted him to close his eyes while he enjoyed the feeling, but he watched her as she did this for him, his fingers running through her hair, a louder groan escaping his lips.

When she stood up again, he claimed her lips instantly, tasting himself on her. He turned them so she was pushed up against the door, his tongue exploring the inside of her mouth as his hands undid the buttons down her shirt, pushing it open but not off of her.

Molly let her head rest against the door, giving him access to her neck as he made his way to her collarbone, one hand cupping her breast, pinching the fabric of her bra over her nipple and she gasped at the feeling, her hand pressing hard into his shoulder.

It was not often that Molly wore skirts to work, but she had chosen the right day for it. He pushed her skirt up to her waist as he let his hand slide into her knickers. His middle finger found her most sensitive spot, rubbing circles as she bit her lip to contain a loud moan, her eyes clamping shut.

He slid her knickers down and threw them, lost somewhere within the closet as he lifted her off of her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he rested his forehead to hers as he pressed himself against her entrance.

Her usually dark brown eyes were wildly blown black now as he brought one hand up to cup her cheek. She grabbed his hand and gently kissed his fingers, letting the tip of his finger he had rubbed against her slide into her mouth, sucking on it gently as she tasted herself on him.

When he pulled his hand away he pressed himself into her, letting his whole length fill her as she let out a loud moan, kissing him hard as he moved in and out of her. It was not long before they found a common rhythm. Sherlock kissed along her neck, biting and sucking her soft skin, leaving a flushed colour behind.

Molly bit down on her lip harder than before, trying to hide the loud moans as his pace sped up, moving into her harder. She became increasingly tight around him, her grip on his hair hard enough to make him groan louder. "Sherlock," she whined out as he captured her lips again, swallowing her cry as she clenched around him with her release.

Hearing his name from Molly's moaning, worked-up voice was enough to push him over the edge. A few more thrusts followed as they rode out their waves of pleasure, kissing softly now through their afterglow.

Sherlock pulled out of her, placing her down on wobbly legs as she still tried to gain control of her breath. He readjusted himself, fixing his clothes as Molly fixed hers. He handed her knickers to her, letting out a soft chuckle as he did so.

Although Sherlock was able to make his clothes look more straightened out than Molly's, his curls were positively messy and all over the place.

When Sherlock turned to face her again, he lightly pressed her back against the door giving her light loving kisses. His hands lingered on her sides as she smiled under their kiss.

When they broke away, Molly took a second to look around the room and realised again where she was, a slight scarlet colour filling her cheeks.

"Oh, don't get embarrassed now, this was your idea after all," he said as Molly gave a giggle, blushing further. She wasn't sure where that confidence came from, but she felt overwhelmed when she realised how happy she would be with Sherlock. She had appreciated everything she had in life; her flat, her good job, but he filled the missing hole, and it felt complete now.

"Ready to go home?" Sherlock asked, walking close to her out of the lab.

"More than ever," she said, finding his hand and lacing hers with it.


End file.
